


Monstrous Things and Butterfly Wings

by HalfBloodDragon



Category: Heroes (TV 2006)
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Agent Sylar, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Complete, F/M, Friendship, Humor, Redemption, Romance if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23196580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfBloodDragon/pseuds/HalfBloodDragon
Summary: Hand on the doorknob, Sylar paused. "This makes you the one person in the world who's safe from me. How does that feel?""Terrifying," Claire replied.Volume 3, retold with a growing Sylaire friendship.
Relationships: Claire Bennet/Sylar | Gabriel Gray
Comments: 57
Kudos: 47





	1. The Willing Abduction

"Are you going to kill me?" Claire asked. Tears caught in her throat; a line of blood adorned her head.

"Oh, Claire." Sylar smiled. "I couldn't kill you if I wanted to."

Time shifted on its axis. Somewhere distant, a butterfly flapped its wings.

Hand on the doorknob, Sylar paused. "That makes you the one person in the world who's safe from me. How does that feel?"

"Terrifying," she answered.

But Sylar let go of the door, striding towards her. Claire skittered backward. He stopped a foot away, still too close for comfort. One hundred miles away would be too close for comfort.

"You're a good person, right?" he asked, not waiting to hear the answer. "Moral and innocent and pure."

"I… I don't know…"

Sylar rolled his eyes. "Only the truly good aren't sure. And you know your blood saves lives?"

Despite her pounding heart, she felt her courage resolve. "Yes. It brought my dad back."

"Well, you see, your blood brought me back, too." The distraught expression on her face was an enjoyable sight. "Now, since learning about your blood's _miraculous_ powers, how many people have you saved?"

Claire scowled at him. "What?"

"Well, if _I_ were a good person -- like you, of course --" Sylar sauntered closer, dragging his fingers along the tops of her father's company boxes. "I'd have gone to a blood drive every weekend. Every _day,_ perhaps. I wonder how quickly your blood regenerates? How many lives you could save per hour?"

Claire's scowl deepened.

"So?" The red folders he'd grabbed rattled against his side as he stepped closer. "How many have you saved?"

Her scowl turned bitter. "My dad doesn't want--"

"Tsk tsk, Cheerleader. How selfish." Sylar shook a finger in her face. "You're losing points off the Good Person scale. Might be closer to my end than you thought."

"Never," she said.

Sylar only smiled. "How'd you like to save…" He counted the red folders under his arm. "Four?"

"What?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't particularly matter to me if my victims live or die. Thought it might to you. Thought you might want to make a difference." With a cheery wave, he headed for the door.

"Wait!" she called out.

He stopped on the spot, savoring the moment he'd known would come.

"Explain," Claire said.

"I do my thing, cut open their heads," he said with a little wave of his finger. "All you need is a syringe. A little injection of your blood and they're as good as new. No reason for anyone to die. Ever again, really, if you were truly the martyr type. But I think you'll settle for," He batted his eyes, trying to ooze innocence. "saving the lives of four, undeserving victims."

"Like you care if they die," Claire bit out.

He lifted a hand helplessly. "I don't. But _you_ do." He turned to the boxes, rifling through them.

"So what do you get out of this?" she asked, watching him through narrowed eyes.

"Company," he said, not looking away from the boxes. "After my Central American Road Trip, I got used to having an annoying sidekick."

Claire snorted. "Go rot in hell, Sylar."

He produced a syringe triumphantly. "Knew your dad would have one lying around." But on top of that box lay a single file, separated from all the rest. "What's this?" He paged through the yellow folder.

Claire lunged for him. "Don't you touch that!"

With a flick of his fingers, Sylar pinned her against the back of the couch. "Now, now, Claire. It doesn't do to get emotional over a simple ability to fly."

"Leave him alone," she gritted out.

" _Him_." A wolfish smile spread across Sylar's face. "Thank you, Claire. You've already helped tremendously. You see, I was about to take on the Company with only your power and my own." He shrugged. "Probably would have worked, but why take the chance? Much better to stock up, first." He skimmed back through the file. "Ooh, a local boy! How convenient."

"Don't touch him!" Claire screamed, writhing against her invisible bonds.

Sylar held a hand to his ear. "What was that? I thought you told me to rot in hell. Have you had a change of heart?"

Claire was silent for a long moment. "Yes," she finally said. "I'll help."

Sylar clapped a hand to his chest. "Your willingness warms my cold, dead, heart. Truly, it does."

Claire fell forward, her invisible bonds released.

He tossed her the syringe. Claire caught it, glaring at his back.

Slipping the yellow folder in among the red, Sylar walked out the front door, whistling a jaunty tune. His glowering shadow followed sullenly after, gripping the syringe like she was dreaming about places she'd like to stab it.

Sylar couldn't help but smile at her. This was going to be fun.


	2. West

Bob Bishop walked into Noah's cell in the Primatech basement. By way of greeting, Bob threw a bulletproof vest at him.

"Sylar has your daughter," was all Bob had to say. "I assume you'll play nicely with the Company?"

Noah slipped the vest over his head like a second skin. "Anything to see Claire safe and that bastard good and dead."

He held his hand out for his gun.

With a smile, Bob handed Noah his pistol. "Welcome back."

Sylar knocked on the front door of the apartment.

“You didn’t let me save those cops you attacked,” Claire said with venom. “You’re a liar.”

He shook a finger at her. “If they’d come back, I would have had to kill them all over again. You can’t save _everyone_ , Claire.”

“They will come back,” she said, growing in intensity. “They’ll never stop coming for you. And one day, Peter will–"

Sylar groaned. “When will everyone shut _up_ about that martyr? He nearly blew up New York.”

Claire gave a vicious smile. She couldn’t wait to see Peter punch Sylar’s smug face.

The door opened. West looked confused. “Claire? Is everything–"

“FLY, WEST, FLY!” she screamed.

It took West a second before he understood. Then, launching into the air, he flew for the window.

Sylar was faster. One hand outstretched, he caught West in mid-air, levitating off the ground. Only West’s eyes moved, flicking to Claire in terror.

Sylar rolled his eyes at her. “Really, Claire? _That_ was your grand plan?”

“I had to try something.” Her glare at Sylar faltered. West was _terrified_ – and he kept looking to Claire to put it right.

Sylar shook his head. “Pathetic. Try something that stupid again and I won’t let you save him.”

Claire stepped toward the monster, fury dripping from each syllable. “If you stop me, I will make every moment of the rest of your life a living hell.”

Sylar looked at her from under his eyebrows with a wolfish smile. “Promise?”

Claire snarled. “Don’t–"

But he held up a hand. “Relax, Claire Bear. Not today. You can save your precious boy.”

Both sets of eyes turned toward West, still frozen mid-flight.

“You, on the other hand,” Sylar said to him. “Shouldn’t relax at all. I expect this will hurt – badly.”

“I’m so sorry, West,” Claire whispered.

Sylar snorted. “There’s no need to get dramatic, Claire. I’m only going to crack open his skull.”

He raised a finger. West screamed.

Before today, Claire had never heard the sound a skull makes when it cracks. Now, she'd heard it twice. Oddly enough, her own had been the less traumatizing of the two, with the distraction of fearing for her life and everything. With West's… Claire could hear the sound over and over again. She wondered if she'd hear it for the rest of her life.

"Okay, Claire!" Sylar yelled to the girl in the corner of the room, tears running down her face. "I'm done!"

Wiping her eyes, Claire came closer. A pool of blood spilled across the ground. West's eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling.

"You're a monster," she whispered, her voice still thick with tears.

Sylar shrugged. "Probably."

Claire stuck the needle in her arm, drawing the plunger back to hold as much of her blood as it could carry.

Pulling it out, she knelt beside West's corpse. "I'm so sorry," she said, brushing strands of hair out of his eyes. "I should have destroyed your file. This is all my fault."

"Yes, yes," Sylar said from behind her. "Tick tock, Claire."

She plunged the syringe into West's arm. Moments passed. Nothing happened.

Claire frowned. "Why isn't it--"

West's eyes cleared. He sucked in a breath -- and began screaming.

Behind her, Sylar grinned. "You forgot to reattach his head."

Claire yanked West's scalp toward her. Wincing, she lined it up carefully with his exposed skull. The wound closed all-too slowly. Finally, his screams stopped.

"I'm so sorry, West," Claire sobbed as the boy struggled to his feet. "So sorry."

West only spared her a disgusted glare. The moment he got to his feet, he flew through the window.

"Now wasn't that touching," Sylar said. "You saved a life, Claire! How does it make you feel?"

Claire could only look down at her hands, covered in her boyfriend's blood.

The door burst open. Agents surged into the apartment with Noah Bennet at the forefront. He took one look at Claire. Then his gun turned to Sylar.

He emptied his clip into the psychopath. Sylar stumbled backward with the force of each bullet.

The moment Sylar was down, Noah rushed to Claire. "It's alright, Claire," he said, holding her close. "Everything's going to be alright."

Claire kept batting her father's hands away. "He can _heal_ , Dad! You don't understand, you have to--!"

An invisible force ripped Claire from her father's arms. It pulled her to the window. A completely-fine Sylar wrapped an arm around her, tilting his head. "You should listen to your daughter more, Noah. It really would be good for your health."

Claire turned on him. "Don't you dare--"

But the window was open, and, holding Claire, Sylar simply flew them through it.

Looking down as they flew, she saw her father run to the window, the sight rapidly receding as they soared higher.

"You're sick," Claire yelled to Sylar, barely audible over the racing wind.

Sylar smiled. "No, I'm Superman."

They landed at a gas station that had seen better days. Looking around her, Claire wondered what part of the country they were even in. It felt like they'd flown for hours, but for all she knew, it could still be California.

Sylar exited the station bathroom, indicating her turn with an overly elaborate wave. Claire slammed the door behind her.

She gripped the graffitied sink like a lifeline. Should she have run? Those few moments unattended outside where she hadn't, did that make her an accomplice? She was here to help people, dammit. So why did she feel so dirty?

Turning on the tap, Claire scrubbed at her hands. West's blood had long since dried into a crust. She'd been _helping_ him, Claire tried to repeat to herself. She still had the bloody syringe in her back pocket to prove it.

When she stepped outside, Sylar flung a bunched up jacket at her. "You're still covered in blood. Can't have anyone call the cops on us, can we? You know what I do to cops."

Claire said nothing. She simply pulled the jacket on.

He smiled. "Good. Now I _expect_ my niece to be a perfect lady while we talk to that old geezer at the motel."

He offered her an arm, but Claire yanked away. "Motel! I'll never--"

Rolling his eyes, he grabbed her arm, forcibly looping it through his own. "You have _such_ a dirty mind. Not even I would stoop that low."

"I've met monsters like you," Claire said. "You have no idea how low they'll stoop."

Sylar stopped. He looked over at her, a frown creasing his brow. Exactly how low had her other monsters stooped?

Claire smiled sweetly up at him. "I've always wanted a serial killer for an uncle. You don't think you'll mind if I brag to the desk clerk, will you?"

"She won't live if you do," he said and resumed walking. "Be good, niece. Or else I'll tell her your name is Petunia."

Claire snorted. "That's rich, coming from my Uncle Digby."

He laughed. "I knew a dog named that, once."

"What happened to it?"

Sylar shrugged. "It died."

The little old lady at the front desk pushed her glasses down her nose. "You want the room for how long?"

"Oh, just the night, don't you think, Natalie?" Sylar said. He was enjoying this far too much. "We've got to be on our way to the family reunion tomorrow."

Claire rolled her eyes. "Should have taken a plane."

"But Natty" He leaned down to her. "You know how I'm afraid of flying!"

The old lady smiled politely. "That'll be $120 for the night."

"For a little dirt hole like this?" he muttered under his breath. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out twenty after twenty, stacking them on the counter. He added an extra one with a wink. "For such a kind soul."

"There are two beds, right?" Claire asked her.

"Of course, dear," the lady smiled at her.

"Should have gotten two rooms," Claire muttered. "My uncle snores."

Sylar's smile was all for her. "If I'd done that, Natty, you could have run away! I know how you hate family reunions."

"Bite me," she replied.

Still smiling, he shook his head, turning to the old lady. "Children these days, am I right? No respect."

He steered her toward the room, a hand at her back. Claire shook it off. "I chose to be here, alright? Stop acting like I'm about to bolt."

Sylar shrugged. "I'm sure you won't. You wouldn't want me to get mad and pop a few skulls."

He slid the keycard into the door, holding it open for her. Claire rolled her eyes. _Such_ a gentleman.

The moment they were inside, Sylar flicked his fingers. The bed closest to the door scraped across the floor, blocking the entrance. The latches on the windows warped, twisting shut.

"I call this bed," Sylar said nonchalantly, flopping on top of it.

Claire looked down at him, hands on her hips. "What happened to being sure I wouldn't run away?"

He shrugged, playing with the frayed end of his sleeve. "Yes, but it'd be such a _hassle_ if you did." Tilting his head, he looked up at her. "I'm getting used to your company."

"Great." Claire flung her jacket at her bed, staring down at her still bloodstained shirt and shorts. Even her _socks_ held a tinge of pink. "Just great."

Sylar had closed his eyes, arms laced behind his head. "There's a shower in the bathroom. Might even have gross motel bathrobes for you."

Claire looked at him silently, then stormed to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

When she finally emerged, hair wet and body wrapped in a motel bathrobe, he was already asleep. He looked almost peaceful, sleeping on top of the sheets, one arm draped casually across his chest. Or, he would have, if she hadn't known what those hands had done today. Twice.

What was the phrase? Let sleeping dragons lie?

Claire tiptoed to the window, hoping to do exactly that. Running away would be futile, she knew, but there was a payphone just down the street. She could see it tempting her in the light of the lamp above it. One quick call home, then sneaking back in and he'd never be the wiser.

Saving lives was one thing. Preventing him from hurting anyone ever again would be even better.

Normally, the window would have been next to his bed, but he'd pulled it forward to block the door. Meaning, if Claire could just be quiet enough, she'd have a clear route in and out of the room.

She put a hand on the latch, testing it. The metal was _bent_ shut. She tugged, willing it to open. After a few more attempts, Claire let go. It was hopeless. Maybe a buff, six-foot man could rip it open, but a highschool girl barely cracking five feet never stood a chance. Not for the first time, she cursed her power for being so useless. She couldn't even beat a _window_. Claire stepped away from her only chance at escape.

"Wise choice," Sylar said.

She spun to face him. "Do you _ever_ stop being creepy?"

Still lying on the bed, he lifted the arm draped across himself in a shrug. "I try not to. Makes life more fun."

With a huff of frustration, Claire threw herself on the other bed. Muffling her face in her pillow, she asked, "Do I even want to know where you got the money?"

"The traditional way. Robbed an ATM."

Claire sighed.

After a few moments, she rolled under the blankets, trying to get comfortable. A serial killer was lying only a few feet away from her. He'd murdered and robbed just today -- and would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

"What's on the agenda for tomorrow?" Claire asked.

"I'm not sure yet." The rough husk of sleep still laced Sylar's voice. "Thanks to Fly Boy, the whole country's our oyster. We don't even need to steal a car."

 _We_. She wanted to vomit.

He yawned. "I'm always game for knocking off a Petrelli, but that feels like eating dessert before the main course." He looked over at her, the faint glow from the streetlight illuminating one side of his face. "You know of any good ones?"

Claire snorted. "As if I'd tell you."

He turned over in bed, completely unbothered. "Suit yourself. Any we go for now you won't have to worry about me killing later."

"How thoughtful."

Sylar laughed. "Goodnight, Cheerleader."

Claire blinked up at the darkness of the ceiling. "Goodnight, Creep."


	3. The Wayward Motel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For PurpleTypewriter and TheFightingBull <3

Claire woke to the smell of waffles.

She rolled over blearily, blinking her eyes. "Mom? What are you…"

It all came back in a rush. With the curtains pulled aside, light streamed into the motel room, making even the shabby place look bright. Sylar, in his black t-shirt and dark jeans, stuck out like an evil thumb.

"Morning, Claire Bear," he said, setting out waffles on plates. "How did you sleep?"

Claire groaned, pulling a pillow back over her face. This was a nightmare. Go back to sleep, and it might go away.

"Claire Bear," Sylar said warningly. "We have a lot to do today. Don't make me pull the covers off."

She sat up in an instant. "Touch me and you die."

"Temper, temper." With a flick of his fingers, he moved the end table closer to her, waffles steaming gently from on top. He sat down on the bed on the opposite side, its old springs groaning. Butter smeared across his waffle, melting as soon as his knife passed over it.

Claire stared at hers, waiting for it to bite her.

With an eye roll, Sylar reached across to her waffle, cutting a bite out of it. He popped it in his mouth, arms thrown wide in a sarcastic 'tada.' "See?" he said around the bite. "Not poisoned."

"You can't eat waffles without syrup," Claire said.

He gave a rueful shake of his head. "I keep forgetting you're a Texan." The bag flung at her face. Claire caught it, digging out syrup packets.

She poured one liberally on her waffle. " _Can_ we even be poisoned?"

Sylar smiled. "Might slow us down. The only deaths I've thought of that would stick are a vat of acid and a lava pit. Then we'd get to do the old 'I'm melting, meeelltting!' routine."

"Or just give a thumbs up," Claire said, chewing her bite. "Go down in style."

Sylar looked confused.

"Terminator 2," she clarified. "Gosh, do you do _anything_ fun?"

"I kill people and I get waffles for ungrateful teenagers. That's two things." He looked up, lost in thought. "Oh wait, that's only one."

Claire smiled thinly under narrowed eyes. "Ha. I think I'm loads of fun."

"All cheerleaders do," he muttered. With his chin, he gestured at a shopping bag on his bed. "Before you fall over yourself in gratitude, yes, I robbed a store. Something in there should be your size."

Claire glared at him. "Can you go _one day_ without ruining someone else's?"

The question perplexed him. "No?"

With a roll of her eyes, Claire stuffed a final bite and went to the bag. This must be a smaller town than she thought if _these_ were the only girl clothes he could find. Most were t-shirts. Only a scant few managed to be an appealing shade, let alone something cute or flattering.

Claire pulled a hideous skirt out of the bag, wide enough for two of her. "This?" She held it up, facing Sylar. "You thought _this_ was my size?"

He put a hand over his heart. "I'm so _sorry,_ dear. If you want, I'll take you right back to that little shop so that we can complain to the manager. He did seem so rushed, stuffing all these items in the bag while I strangled him. I'm _sure_ he didn't mean to call you fat."

The skirt fell from her hands. "You killed him?" she whispered. "Over _clothes?_ "

"Please." Sylar snorted. "Who's going to believe his story about a man who can choke people with the Force?" He pantomimed Darth Vader's chokehold. "He's only a little bruised. No need to go busting out your syringe."

Claire was unconvinced.

"Look, keep wearing a bathrobe, for all I care," Sylar said, reaching for the bag. "I've already choked him for the clothes. It would be a shame for them to go to waste."

She pulled the bag out of his reach. As he smirked, she stalked off into the bathroom.

The moment she shut the door the familiar guilt began to gnaw at her. From now on, she'd be wearing stolen clothes. Benefiting from the suffering he inflicted. Where did it end?

Claire stared at her face in the mirror, not sure she liked what she saw.

"I'm helping people. _Helping_ them," she told it.

Her reflection still stared mockingly at her. Claire smashed her fist through it.

Everything shattered.

Sylar continued eating his waffle as the bathroom door slammed in the background. A minute later, there was a second crash.

He frowned. _What in the world…?_

"Sylar?" Claire's faint voice drifted through the door. "What did you do to me?"

In an instant, he flew to the bathroom, ripping the door off its hinges.

Claire sat on the tile floor, a shower of mirror fragments surrounding her. Two shards protruded from her fist. A glance at the mirror revealed cracks, radiating as if she'd punched it.

"What did _I_ do to you?" Sylar asked. "You punched a mirror. Don't try to pin that one on me."

She looked up from her bloody fist. "I can't feel pain."

He rolled his eyes. "I ripped a door off for that? Get dressed. Stop being dramatic."

"I CAN'T FEEL PAIN!" she yelled at him. "It was the only thing that kept me human!"

"And apparently head surgery has cured you of that." He swept his hands wide. "You're welcome."

"Get out," she snarled at him.

Sylar gestured towards the busted door. "I can't, I--"

"Get out, get out, GET OUT!" Her face twisted into a mask of rage.

Backing away, he propped the door up into its frame, closing it as best he could.

Minutes passed and she still hadn't emerged. "Claire?" he called. "In two minutes I'm going to go reintroduce myself to that nice old desk clerk."

The door slammed open, bouncing off the far wall. Claire strode through, dressed in new jeans and a shirt with a neckline high enough to satisfy a nun.

"I'm here," she seethed, yanking on her jacket.

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "I brought you along for the company, Claire. Can't say it's working out very well."

"What do you want from me?" She leaned close to his face. "I'm supposed to be indestructible but you managed to hurt me in the only possible way. You want me to say sorry? You want me to play nice?"

He still looked confused. "It sounds better, to me. I've never particularly enjoyed pain."

She spotted the knife on their breakfast table. In one motion, she grabbed it, surging for his chest.

Sylar froze her in mid-swing. "I _just_ said I didn't like pain, Claire. Weren't you listening?"

"Go jump off a cliff," Claire spat. Her knife hovered over his chest.

"I'd survive that," he replied. "Thanks to you."

"Good. Then you could jump again."

"Claire…" Sylar sighed. He ripped the knife from her hand, driving it through the table -- and through her other hand. Claire never flinched. "Huh. You really can't feel pain."

He pulled the knife out of her hand. Aside from the blood pooling on the table, her hand closed up as if nothing had ever happened. With telekinesis, he forced her to sit on her bed while he dropped onto his own. "While I think it's _clearly_ an improvement, I guess you're entitled to your opinion."

"You guess," she said, spasming as she attempted to move her head. "Who gave you the right--"

"I _was_ going to pay a visit to our dear friend Mohinder, but I suppose it can wait." Sylar eyed her, his lips pursed. "I can't put you back the way you were. Can't fix something that isn't broken. How else can I make it up to you?"

"Jump off a cliff," Claire bit out. "I already said."

"Short of harming myself in any way," he said dryly. "That other monster you said you knew. Want me to go kill him for you?"

Claire stared at Sylar. A smile twitched at her lips. Then, she lost control. Claire laughed, and laughed, and laughed. "You're -- what?" she said between giggles. "Offering to be my hero?"

"Laugh it up," he said, looking away. "Here I thought I was finally doing something _good_."

Claire snorted. Belatedly, she noticed the wounded look on Sylar's face. She blinked, stunned. "You were serious."

"I was," he said.

Claire hesitated. A favor from a monster. Not worth the price, of course, but she couldn't deny the intrigue. "Are you still?"

Sylar nodded.

"You never hurt my family again," Claire rattled off her demands on her fingers. "You never hurt Peter, and you never hurt Molly Walker."

"Your family," he said. "Adopted or biological?"

"Both," she replied.

He sighed. "Claire, that is a _lengthy_ list of demands for a simple loss of pain. Especially when your family tries so often to hurt _me_."

"You don't hurt them, you don't kill them," she clarified. "If they're fighting you, you can-- knock them out, or whatever. Nothing permanent."

"Let me get this straight. That's Daddy and Mommy Horn Rim Glasses, the little twerp, Larry or whatever--"

"Lyle," Claire seethed.

He held up his hands in surrender. "Fire Mom, Flying Dad -- who, by the way, is already safe from me thanks to our little visit yesterday -- Uncle Peter, and little Molly. That's seven, Claire." He smiled. "You get six."

"Then leave out Nathan. You already said he's safe from you."

"Was I counting him? My bad. You get five. And I won't agree to forever with Molly. I'll give her a month."

Claire glared at Sylar.

"It's still a pretty good deal, Claire Bear. I'd take it."

"Five?" she repeated, making sure.

Sylar nodded. "Five."

If this wasn't the definition of making a deal with the devil, Claire didn't know what was. Closing her eyes against the betrayal of it, she forced herself to say the words. "Peter. He doesn't need protection from you."

Sylar snorted. "Sure. Leave your ol' Hero out in the lurch. Sounds about right."

"Peter is a better man than you'll ever _dream_ of being," Claire spat.

"I'm sure he is," Sylar drawled, unconcerned. "I leave the Magnificent Five alone and you forgive me for opening up your skull. We have a deal?"

"Forgive?" Claire drew back. "Who said anything about 'forgive?'"

"Pardon me." He rolled his eyes. "Catholic upbringing and all. I leave them alone and you stop being a bitch about your skull. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Good." Stepping forward, he offered her his hand. "Ready to fly?"

Claire stood, but she hesitated before deciding whether or not to take his hand. "Where are we going?"

"Not New York; your little deal put an end to that."

Claire pulled her hand back. "You were going to kill a little girl?"

"Obviously -- as you knew. You should be proud of me, Claire. I'm upholding our little…" Sylar waved his hand vaguely. " _Bargain_."

Claire smiled, batting her eyelashes overenthusiastically. " _So_ proud. And not at all a bitch about losing the only thing keeping me human."

"Human is overrated," he muttered.

Grasping his hand, she stepped closer, their toes almost touching. "If not New York, then where?"

He smiled. "Primatech."


	4. Primatech

"I have a bad feeling about this," Claire muttered, staring through the metal fence of Primatech. "Like you're about to kill a lot of people and not let me heal any of them."

When she turned to look at him, Sylar was staring at her, a broad smile growing on his face.

"What?" Claire scowled.

His smile remained undimmed. "You're betting on me. That I'll beat them."

"Obviously." She rolled her eyes. "You're only the Boogeyman."

"Still," he said. "Against the Company and all. It's nice."

"You are _such_ a creep."

He shrugged. "You could always help. Keep me from needing to kill people."

Claire stared at him, considering. "What did you have in mind?"

"Please! Someone, help me!" Claire ran into the parking lot.

Only a scattered few cars lingered. At the red sedan she stumbled toward, a middle-aged man in a janitor's uniform turned toward her.

"Miss?" he said in alarm. "Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

Claire shook her head. "My boyfriend… he's… please, come quickly!"

The janitor followed on her heels as they ran around the gate.

Sylar waited, grinning viciously. "Thanks," he said, and slammed the man into the fence. The janitor crumpled in a heap.

"You said you wouldn't hurt him!" Claire yelled.

"I said I wouldn't _kill_ him! I can't work miracles, Claire!" Sylar crouched next to the janitor, already stripping off the man's uniform. "Check his pulse if you don't believe me."

"Unbelievable," Claire muttered under her breath. She knelt, but instead of checking the man's pulse she simply stabbed a syringe of her blood into his arm.

"Seriously?!" Sylar gestured to her. "You want me to have to knock him out a _second_ time?"

"He wanted to help me." Claire glowered at Sylar. "I don't feel right hurting him."

Sylar groaned, doubling his pace. The janitor's eyes were already fluttering. Sylar yanked the man's pants off over his shoes. "At least gag him before he comes around."

Muttering a final apology, Claire ripped strips of the janitor's undershirt, stuffing them in his mouth and knotting them around the back of his head. His eyes blinked open. Immediately, he turned to Claire, full of accusation.

With a wince, she looked away. "I hate this. Are you done yet?"

"Aww, Claire, I thought you _liked_ being helpful. How do I look?"

She turned to Sylar. The janitor was substantially shorter, as his pants only cleared the tops of Sylar's socks. Sylar kept tugging the jacket down to cover his stomach. At least he had a tank top underneath. Only the hat fit.

"That looks uncomfortable," Claire replied with a smirk.

"Yes, thank you for the mocking." Sylar rolled his eyes. "Do I pass for a janitor? You've been here before; you know what they're like."

She tapped a finger against her lips. "More deferential."

"Gosh, Miss," he replied, adopting a Southern accent. "I'm sorry to trouble you and all, but I only meant the way I look, not my manner of address."

"Perfect."

Muffled thumping came from behind Claire. The actual janitor was struggling to his feet. With a flick of his fingers, Sylar ripped out one of the metal bars of the fence, bending it around the janitor and tying him to it.

Claire smiled at him. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Sylar rolled his eyes, striding out onto the parking lot. "I'm here to kill people, Claire."

She followed. "Specials. Five of them."

"Yes."

"And I'll bring them back. But the moment you kill someone else, someone _not_ in those five--"

"I know, I know," Sylar strode for the innocuous building. "Your help ends. Means I have to time my murders right." Casually, he flicked a hand toward the backdoor.

"Wait!" Claire grabbed his arm, stopping the flick mid-motion.

Sylar looked at her as she held him, his gaze only curious -- for the moment.

"He'll have an ID badge," Claire said. "I imagine ripping the door off will trigger _some_ sort of alarm."

"They'll know I'm here eventually, Claire."

"Then what was this for?" She gestured at the uniform. "You just enjoy playing dress-up?"

"Not that I don't," He pulled his arm away. "but this was to blend in when the whole place erupts in chaos."

"You are _such_ a drama queen."

Sylar chuckled. But, he patted the various pockets of the uniform, finding an ID badge in the back one. With a beep, the door opened for it. Claire wore her proudest 'I told you so' look.

They stepped onto the floor of the paper company. The usual hustle and bustle surrounded them.

"Claire!"

She turned at the voice. Instinctively, Sylar ducked his head, hiding beneath his hat. An older man trotted towards them, a colleague of her dad's who she remembered was named Jerry.

"Your dad's been looking for you," Jerry said. "He's been worried sick."

"That's why I'm here." Claire smiled sweetly. "Wanted to let him know I'm okay."

"I'll take you to him," Jerry continued. With a frown, he finally noticed Sylar loitering in the background. "Can I help you?"

Sticking his hands in his pockets, Sylar slipped back into his Southern accent. "Yes, sir! I wanted to let Mr. Bennet know personally what a kind soul his daughter is."

Horrified, Claire spun to face him. That had sounded like a threat. Against her _father._ The father Sylar had agreed to leave alone.

Jerry hadn't noticed. He clapped Sylar on the back. "This way."

They walked down long corridors. Voices drifted from up ahead.

"I don't _care_ what it takes!" Noah yelled. "That monster has my daughter! Bob's given me the resources and I'm putting it right."

"But sir," a different voice replied. "We've tried before and--"

Claire stopped before the final corner, smiling at Jerry. "I think I can take it from here. Thanks for your help."

"You betcha, Claire. If there's anything you need, you let me know. And don't let him--" He pointed at Sylar. "play hooky for too long. Alright?"

"You betcha, boss," Sylar replied.

As Jerry walked away, Sylar began to round the corner.

Claire grabbed his arm, trying to hold him back. "Sylar, my father! You can't--"

He shook her free. Rounding the corner, he stepped into view of the agents waiting on the other side. Claire chased after him.

There was a moment before any of the three agents noticed the janitor. Bennet gestured to a corkboard with photos pinned on it while a short man scribbled something down.

Sylar flung the short man into the wall. His head hit with a crack. Immediately, Noah reached for his gun. Sylar ripped it away. The third agent rushed Sylar, only to be flung into the other wall. Bennet stared down the monster alone and unarmed.

Sylar smiled. "Hello, Noah."

"You sick bastard," Bennet spat. "What did you do--"

Sylar threw Bennet through the corkboard. He slid down the wall, unmoving.

Claire raced forward. "My dad… you…" She stopped, staring.

"He's unconscious." Sylar rolled his eyes. "You're welcome."

Her eyes flicked to the three bodies. "You didn't kill any of them."

"No, and--" He gestured upwards. "No alarm." With another gesture, Bennet's ID badge flew to his hand. "Now, you've been here before. Where's the door to the next level down?"

"I don't know, I've never been through it."

Sylar sighed. "Then _where_ haven't you ever been before?"

Instantly, she knew. "His boss's office. This way."

They were halfway through the second level when the alarm went off.

Immediately, Sylar grabbed Claire's arm, dragging her faster. "We've got to get in and out. Bob won't stay put for long once he knows I'm here."

Unconscious bodies littered their path back through the corridors.

Claire struggled to jam the needle in her arm as he tugged her faster. "I'm walking, I'm walking! No need to rip my arm off."

"Short little legs," he muttered under his breath. Before she had a chance to protest, Sylar scooped her up, flying down the hall.

Doors flicked past at unimaginable speed. When they got to oaken double doors, Claire braced for impact. Sylar simply flung them aside, never slowing his flight. By the time he set her on the ground, Bob Bishop's head was already halfway off.

Looking away, Claire winced, trying to ignore the man's screams. Bob had been a bad guy, right? Probably. He'd stood by while Mohinder shot her father. How many times had her dad stood by while someone died? How many times had he pulled the trigger?

"Your turn," Sylar called, wiping blood off his hands with the balled-up janitor's jacket. In just a white tank top, blood dripping from his arms, he looked every inch the feral animal from her nightmares.

Claire hesitated. At least he'd done her the favor of reattaching Bob's skull, first. "How bad does someone have to be to not deserve a second chance?"

Tossing the blood-stained jacket aside, Sylar shrugged. "You tell me, Claire."

If she didn't know, wasn't it better to err on the side of the living? Claire jammed the needle into Bob's neck.

As Bob gasped his first breath, Sylar toppled a bookcase onto him.

Claire jumped out of the way, glaring at Sylar. "Seriously? After I'd just fixed him?"

Sylar pulled her against his chest, taking to the air. "He'll live."

As they flew, Claire couldn't suppress her giggles. She felt like John Connor with Sylar as her own personal Terminator who was barely repressing his basest impulses to kill everything in sight. 

He looked down at her, confused. "What in the world is so funny?"

She kept giggling. "Promise me that you'll say, 'Hasta la vista, baby,' or 'It is not a mission priority.'"

Sylar shook his head. "You are so weird sometimes."

The siren was still blaring when they made their way down to the fifth, final level.

Sylar took a deep breath, savoring the options. "Eenie, meenie, miney…"

On the far left, flames shot from the man's hands, nearly consuming the cell. Next sat Knox, in his straight jacket, watching through the window. Next to that cell was an older man with glasses. And in the final cell… the man with tattoos glared at him as if they were long rivals.

Sylar smiled. "Moe."

Punching the button, he strode from the concrete hallway into the cell. In a second, Sylar pinned him against the far wall, his finger pointing its line of blood across the man's tattooed face.

For once, Claire watched through the cell window as the man screamed. She'd read his file. Jesse: a murderer, a rapist… every sort of sadist known to man. She had no idea why the company left monsters like this alive.

The moment the light left Jesse's eyes, the realization of what she'd just witnessed sunk in. Claire felt sick to her stomach. This wasn't justice. This wasn't any brand of right, no matter what the man deserved.

Sylar emerged from the cell, his hands covered in blood. "Two down, three to--"

Lightning slammed into his chest.

Sylar flew backward, smacking into the cell window.

"You murderer!" Elle screamed, lightning balled in her fists. "You killed him! You--"

"SHUT UP!" he yelled. But his voice carried _force._ Claire had to hang onto the door to keep from flying. Elle, the target of his blast, was flung backward. She hit the wall and dropped, unconscious.

"Nice work!" Claire grinned. "You're getting better at--"

Suddenly, a force ripped her off her feet, flinging her into the cell with the decapitated corpse. The door slammed shut behind her, its lock buzzing into place.

Claire ran to the window. She pounded against it. "Sylar!"

He gave an apologetic shrug. "I did say I'd time my murders."

She battered her fists against the glass -- to no avail. Sylar never even glanced her way. He drew his line of blood across Elle's head. The unconscious girl woke up only in time to scream.

Claire threw up. Bent double, she heaved and heaved until her stomach was dry. If she hadn't been here, if she hadn't helped him, would Elle have died? Would Jesse? She'd never know -- but her heart blamed her for any hurt he ever gave for the rest of his life.

"What do you think I should go for next, Claire?" he called through the glass. "Metal, fear, or fire?"

"You're a monster," she replied.

He gave a rueful smile. "Then I guess I'll go with fear."

The level 5 door slammed open. Noah charged through - and shot Sylar six times in the chest.

Sylar slid down the wall, leaving a bloody trail. Noah reloaded, pointing his piece straight at Sylar's head. He fired. The bullet ripped through his skull. A hole blossomed in the middle of his forehead. And as the lifeless Sylar slumped to the ground--

He exploded.

The first thing Claire saw when she woke was Knox, out of his straight jacket, looking past her at something in her cell.

"Damn," Knox said, grimacing as he looked away. "That bastard really did get Jesse." His eyes flicked to Claire. "You working with him? The brain man?"

"No," she spat, getting to her feet. "I was a hostage." _Willing_ , but she left that part out.

"Hostage?" Knox stepped closer to her. "Meaning you're valuable?"

"C'mon, man!" The fire dude stood at her open cell door, beckoning to Knox. "We gotta run before they all wake up!"

Claire took her own step closer to Knox. "Of course I'm valuable. But not to you."

With a laugh, Knox backed away. He slapped the fire dude on the shoulder, still laughing. "Man, this bitch ain't even a _bit_ afraid of me. Ain't that the shit."

She gestured toward Sylar with her chin. "How else do you think I survived _him_?"

Knox grinned as his friends pulled him away. "Stay cool, little bitch."

Claire couldn't do anything to stop them - she didn't even try. Instead, she ran to her dad. She put a hand to his neck. Couldn't feel anything. Put a hand to his chest - yes, there, a breath.

Claire closed her eyes, relieved.

But there was something else she needed to do.

She looked at the grisly sight of Sylar's body. The hole in his head gaped bloody, messy brain goop down his face. Electrical burn marks covered his skin in patches.

Wincing, Claire tipped Sylar's head forward. It fell lifelessly, landing against her chest. His brain goop dripped onto her shirt.

"Ugh, gross!" She winced again, glad she'd already emptied her stomach. Reaching her hand around his head, she searched for The Spot. However, the bullet's exit wound had blown off the back of his skull. Her fingers landed in his blood and more brain goop.

"I am never going to be able to get this smell out."

And then she found it: the hard little bump between skull and neck that was so vital to her power.

It was perfectly intact.

"Of course it is," she muttered. "Cockroaches always survive." As she looked, the electric burns were already fading from his skin. It meant she had to get him locked away - fast.

Hooking her arms under his, Claire heaved. Nothing happened. He dripped more brain goop onto her shirt.

She turned her back to him, pulling his arms over her shoulders. His head flopped to rest against hers.

She heaved again. He moved - barely.

"This." She took a step, dragging his weight behind her. "Is what I get." Another step. "For wearing." The last, final step towards the nearest cell. "Stolen clothes!"

She dropped his body inside.

As she walked out of the cell, shaking off the brain goop heebie-jeebies, she raised her hand to slam the button and seal him away for good.

"Wait," her father's voice called out. "We have to get him on a drip."

Noah stood, clutching his side, and beaming with pride in his daughter.

She ran to her father, wrapping her arms around him. "Daddy."

"I love you too, Claire Bear."

Hearing him say the nickname washed away every taunting mockery of it from Sylar's lips.

Noah pulled away, staring down at Claire with a smile. "But first, let's get him on a drip."

Elle gulped in a breath, launching up to a sitting position. She turned to look at Claire, who pulled the syringe out of the other girl's arm.

Rubbing the mark-free injection point, Elle stared at Claire. "I was dead. You saved me."

"That's right!" Claire replied, not feeling the least like a hero. _Not like I didn't_ cause _your death, too._

Elle frowned. "Well… thanks, Cheerleader."

With a nod, Claire rose to stand next to her dad.

"Now what?" she whispered, joining him in staring through the window. Sylar slept behind the glass, a tube running from his nose.

"Now, we round up the ones that got out." Bennet looked down at his daughter. "You did great today, Claire. Really great."

"I let him in," Claire said, disgusted with herself. "I _helped_ him."

Her dad hugged her tight. "Only because you had to."

It was far from the truth; Claire planned never to correct him.

High heels clicked on the concrete floor. "Quite a little mess you've all made."

Elle pulled herself to her feet, coughing. "Mrs. Petrelli? What are you doing here?"

Angela Petrelli's smile held no warmth. "With your father's death, Elle, the chain of command falls to me."

"Death?" Claire frowned. "Bishop didn't die."

Angela stepped forward, stroking Claire's face. "Oh, but he did, Claire. Sylar killed him. The security footage shows both of you going into Bob's office, just before the feed cut out. Isn't that right, Noah?"

Noah put an arm around his daughter's shoulders. "You leave Claire out of this."

"Happy to. She's caused enough damage, already." Angela turned away, launching a tirade at Elle for her failings.

"Dad, my blood!" Claire said to him, whispering emphatically. "I can save Bob! I can still bring him back, I can--"

Her dad pulled her against his chest. "It's no use, Claire. He's gone. Bob's gone."

Instead of feeling comforted, Claire felt a growing sense of unease. Bob had _survived_ the head surgery, to borrow Sylar's grisly term. She'd seen him reawaken, seen his skull reattach. Then Sylar had dropped the bookcase on him, but that hadn't seemed more violent than the other times he'd knocked people unconscious -- including her father.

"I couldn't look when he killed Bob," Claire whispered. "Was it bad?"

"Very. There was blood everywhere."

"His head -- open, sawed-off, the usual?"

"Claire, I don't want to give you nightmares--"

"He's done it to me, Dad." Her voice held steel. "Did he do it to Bob?"

Noah paused for a long moment before answering. "Yes, Claire. His head was off. It's Sylar's way."

 _Liar_. Claire had personally seen Bob's skull reattached. A sneaking suspicion told her exactly what had killed Bob Bishop -- and it sat in a holster at her father's hip.

Her gaze shifted from Sylar's cell to the one next to it. What had his name been, the man she'd helped Sylar kill? Oh, right: Jesse.

Pulling away from her father's embrace, she walked toward the cell.

"Claire?" Noah called after her. "What are you doing?"

Claire simply pressed the button, walking inside.

"You don't have to go in there, Claire," Noah called. "We have teams to clean that up."

She continued ignoring him. Sticking her trusty syringe into her arm, she drew out a vial of her blood.

"Claire?" Noah was running for her, now. Before he could stop her, she jammed the syringe into Jesse's arm.

"What have you done?" Noah said, gesturing down at the bloody corpse. "He's… you don't even want to know how bad he is!"

"I don't care, Dad," she said, pressing all the way down on the syringe's plunger. "He didn't deserve this."

"So you think he deserves, what -- a _second chance_?"

The derision with which he said the phrase made Claire shudder. Jesse wasn't the only one in the cell who'd been given a second chance -- she wondered how badly her dad was wasting his own.

Claire didn't bother replying; she simply realigned the two halves of Jesse's skull before he could start screaming.

Slowly, Jesse's eyes opened. He blinked, then winced at the light, wrinkling the tattoo on his face. "Claire?"

Terrified, she pulled away. Had she been wrong, oh so wrong, to bring such a psychopath back? "How do you know my name?" she said, with growing horror.

He smiled, his head dropping back against the floor. "It's me. It's Peter. You're totally my hero."


	5. Partners

In the night, a scarred, future-self came for Peter, leaving only Jesse behind in the Primatech cell.

A mother, once again bereft, turned to her third, least fortunate son -- Sylar. Was he willing to help, to fight for the side of the light?

For her, he was willing to try.

"Claire," her father strode briskly down the hall. "Go home already. Your mother misses you."

"I helped, Dad! I captured Sylar!" Claire said, trying to keep pace. "I saved Peter!"

He stopped, kissing her on the forehead. "I know. And I'm proud of you. But I have to go on assignment now and--"

"Noah?" Sylar stood at the end of the hall, looking surprisingly at home in his new suit and tie. "Pardner?" he drawled. "She's waiting for us. Said to come get you."

"What is _he_ doing here?" Claire hissed at her dad.

Sylar clapped a hand to his chest. "Claire, I'm wounded. And here I thought we were becoming _friends._ After you helped me into Primatech, helped me kill Bob--"

"You shut your mouth!" Bennet yelled. "You don't get to speak to her!"

Sylar raised an eyebrow, passing a look to Claire. _Temper, temper_ , she knew he was thinking. Her mouth twitched with the effort of holding back a smile. He'd killed three people with her help. The smile vanished.

"How can you trust him, Dad?" Claire said, ignoring the serial killer. "After everything he's done?"

"The real question is," Sylar replied for Bennet. "How can you trust _him_? I mean, after Bob died such a horrible, grisly death--" Noah bristled. Sylar smiled. "At my hands, of course."

Sylar knew that Noah had killed Bob. Of course he knew, but he'd just made sure that Claire knew it, too. She already knew, but it was the thought that mattered, right?

"Are you coming?" Sylar asked. Already fuming, Noah walked toward him. Claire felt the familiar longing surge in her. Another door in her life was closing behind her father, another wall rising to keep her on the other side. The _safe_ side. The _useless_ side.

Sylar leaned, looking back over Noah's shoulder. "Claire? Are you?"

"What?" Claire breathed.

"What?!" Noah demanded.

Sylar shrugged. "She can't talk to her grandmother?" He smiled. "And uncle?"

"Oh, grow up, you creep," Claire said, shoving past him.

"You _did_ say you always wanted one to be a serial killer."

"Bite me."

He laughed, closing the door behind them.

"This is outrageous," Noah began, the moment he saw Angela. "She is _my_ daughter and I--"

"Noah." Angela sat behind the grand desk at the far end of the room. She unlaced her fingers to gesture to a chair. "Sit, before you hurt something." Her eyes flicked to Sylar. "Or some _one._ "

Sylar took a chair in front of the desk on the other side. Claire took the chair in the middle, between him and her father. With a final glare at Sylar, Noah sat.

"Now, I know this arrangement is unorthodox, but I have faith in both of you." Angela looked between the two men, almost as if convincing herself. "Knox, Flint, and the German are holding hostages at a bank. We know exactly where they are - likely they intended us to know."

"And me?" Claire asked. "What do I do?"

Angela smiled. "You wait here with me."

"I could help!" Claire protested, for the thousandth time.

Angela grabbed Claire's hand from across the desk. "With Peter vanished, I'm short on family at the moment. I'm not about to risk one of the few I have left."

Claire pulled her hand away. "Peter… vanished?"

"Yes, didn't they tell you, Claire?" Sylar leaned back in his chair, kicking one heel atop the other ankle. "Jesse's back to being just Jesse. Psychopath and all. No more Peter."

"What happened?" Claire asked.

"Claire," Noah cut in, "We don't need to--"

Sylar shrugged. "No one knows."

Angela pursed her lips. If there was something _she_ knew, she wasn't about to say. "Your only priority is the bank. Let me worry about Peter."

The levity vanished from Sylar. "We'll handle it, Mom."

Hours later, her dad escorted one lonely flame-powered criminal back to his cell.

"What happened?" Claire asked. She was glad they even allowed her down in level 5, still. Knowing the company, she wasn't about to push it and ask for a key card. "Weren't there three guys at the bank?"

Sylar strode next to her. "They killed the one who could control metal - shame, that. I--" He paused.

"You killed Knox," Claire said flatly.

Sylar nodded.

She sighed. "I liked Knox. He called me Little Bitch."

Sylar raised an eyebrow at her. "The world will never again hear such poetry."

"Don't mock him!" She shoved Sylar's chest, knocking him backward. "You don't get to do that!"

He raised an eyebrow, but the clever retort he'd been forming died a stillbirth. Sylar looked away. "No," he said softly. "I don't guess that I do."

They stood silently, shoulder to shoulder, for a long minute.

"You're not afraid of me," Sylar finally said. "With his power, I feel fear from everyone else -- at least a little. Even Mom. But not you. Why?"

Claire looked sideways at him. "You have to ask?" He waited. "I've already been through your worst, Sylar. What else is there left to do to me?"

She walked away, back to the higher levels. Sylar walked to his cell, his mind uneasy.

Angela came to him, consoled him about his failings, and that she still believed in her favorite son. Sylar's thoughts kept drifting to a cheerleader who thought he was the worst sort of monster. But when she had called him a creep, it had more genuine affection than he'd heard in years.

"New assignment, I hear," Claire said to Sylar the next day, as they walked through the upper halls of Primatech.

He nodded. "Did your dad tell you anything about it?"

She glared at him. "What do you think?"

He smirked. "That'd be a 'no'. Eric Doyle. Called the Puppetmaster. Should be fun."

Claire raised an eyebrow. "Fun?"

"He controls people with his mind, Claire. No one even knows what his limits are, how many people he can hold. He can only _move_ one at a time, but--"

"Oh, joy," she said dryly. "Another juicy power for you."

Sylar stared at her. But they'd reached the oaken doors of Angela's office and Claire tossed him a cheery wave.

"Have fun growing your murder spree!"

"Come in," Sylar said. Claire stared dumbly at him. "Mom let you, before."

She laughed. "So I can be told how useless I am, how much better off I am sitting here twiddling my thumbs? No thanks."

"Do you want to help or not?" Sylar asked.

Claire frowned at him. "Of course I do."

"Then come in."

Still frowning, she followed him inside.

"Gabriel," Angela smiled. "We were just discussing Doyle. Oh, and hello, Claire. Good to see you, too."

Noah glared at Claire, at Sylar, at Angela. Claire pretended not to notice, heading back to her same seat.

"We have his location," Angela continued, despite the interruption. "I'm sure the two of you can figure out _some_ way to bring him in before he causes serious harm."

"Two?" Sylar raised an eyebrow, dropping into his seat next to Claire. "Claire should get a shot."

Her heart hammered in her throat. She hadn't expected _anything_ from him, let alone so much, so immediately. Was he…? Was _Sylar_ going to bat for her…?

Angela put on her most patronizing smile. "Gabriel, I know you're new to this, but we work in partners. One of us, one of them. It's always worked before. I don't see any reason to change it."

"If you're expecting Doyle back here alive _,_ " Sylar said, "it might not work so well. I don't have the _best_ track record--"

Claire and Noah snorted in unison.

"--so it seems wise to bring an insurance policy." He gestured to Claire.

"Let me get this straight." Noah leaned forward, his fury growing by the second. "You don't trust yourself, so you want to put _my daughter_ in harm's way, just so she can stick her _blood_ in the worst scum we have? You're out of your goddamned mind."

Angela nodded along. "Eric Doyle has a… _history_ with women. It's not a good idea--"

Sylar shrugged. "Either she goes, or I don't."

They looked at him in shock. Claire was the most shocked of all.

"Gabriel," Angela said tightly. "This isn't how we operate. I thought you were trying to _join_ us, to be on the team--"

"I am. And so is Claire. She's wanted to help for years, isn't that right?"

Claire nodded enthusiastically. "I have, I--"

Sylar gestured to himself and Noah. "One of us, one of them. Our partnership makes a bicycle. But I don't think I'm ready to ride yet." He gestured to Claire. "Training wheels."

"I can't believe that 'training wheels' crap sold Angela," Claire said, tugging her blazer down.

"When in doubt, insult yourself. They're always ready to believe the worst." Sylar brushed invisible lint off her shoulder. "At least _you_ don't have to wear a tie."

Claire looked up at him, one eye squeezed shut in the light of the sun over his shoulder. "You sound like you're… I don't know, actually _trying_ not to kill people."

He was pleased she'd noticed. "Proud of me, yet, Claire Bear?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "We'll see. I still think you're a creep."

For some reason, that made him grin.

Noah stormed to the car. "Get in or I leave without you." He slammed the driver's door shut.

Sylar slid into the front seat. "Looks like someone got up on the wrong side of the bed."

"No talking," Noah bit out, turning the ignition. "This is bad enough as it is."

"Dad, I get to finally be your partner!" Claire beamed. "Isn't that--"

"I said no talking!"

Punching the radio, Noah peeled off down the highway.

After five minutes in the silent car, Claire wondered if it was possible to die of boredom. Doyle lived over two hours away, meaning she had to survive twenty times more of these awful silences. She knew because she'd been bored enough to do the math. _Math_.

Claire sighed to herself, looking out the window. If Sylar could read minds, at least she'd have someone to talk to without her dad overhearing. A moment later, she checked herself. It was a _really_ good thing he couldn't read minds. Not even boredom was a worthy enough cause.

But… Claire found herself considering. He'd gained a new power yesterday and she wondered if she could try it out.

Staring at the back of Sylar's head, she focused. She thought back to every terrifying minute, every second running for her life. The feeling of being stalked, of knowing she was going to die. Of seeing Jackie's head split open.

Then, she made the fear vanish. The moment she was sure it was clear, she tried again. More fear, all of it. As high as it would go.

After ten minutes, Claire thought she was getting pretty good. Her fear flared higher than she'd managed before--

Sylar slammed his hands onto the dashboard. Noah and Claire jumped.

"I can't take it," Sylar said, turning around. " _What_ are you so intermittently afraid of?"

She smirked. "It was S.O.S. You don't know Morse code?"

"I know more than just two letters, Claire. _That_ was not Morse code."

Noah's knuckles clenched white, trying to choke the steering wheel to death. "NO TALKING!"

Before turning back around, Sylar paused. Looking Claire square in the eye, he gave her a slow nod.

Was that… approval? Claire tried again. She focused her fear, drove it high--

Sylar tapped his armrest.

She cut it off. Afraid - not. Afraid - not.

Sylar tapped his armrest twice.

Claire grinned.

The car door slammed shut. Noah bent down, looking at Claire through the rolled-down window.

"Do not leave this car," he said in his most commanding tone. "Under any circumstances, Claire."

"But Dad, I--"

"I don't want to hear it!" Noah turned to Sylar, sitting in the front seat. "Don't let her leave the car."

Sylar shaded his eyes to look up at Noah. "The last time you told me not to come, it was because you knew you needed my help. So if you're telling me to not leave the car--"

Noah yanked Sylar forward by his tie. Sylar's eyes widened but he didn't stop Noah. "I don't care what _you_ do," Noah said. "If my _daughter_ steps one toe outside this car - for _any_ reason - I will shoot you."

Sylar knocked his hand away. "First of all, _ow_. Second, you've already tried it. Immortals are hard to kill."

Being reminded of Sylar's immortality only made Noah's humor worse; he knew how Sylar had gotten it. "The bullets won't kill you." Noah smiled without pity. "They'll hurt. And trust me, I know how to make it hurt."

With that, Noah slapped the side of the car, walking off toward the creepy, run-down theater.

Claire and Sylar both stared at Noah's retreating back.

"Your father's a bit scary," Sylar said.

Claire snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."

Sylar shrugged. "Well, for a human. I could still tie him into a pretzel if I wanted."

"Which you've agreed not to do," Claire said, bored. "I think he's scary in general. No qualifications required."

Sylar snorted. "Right, like I'd have anything to fear from someone without powers."

"Name anyone alive who can cause you more problems than the Man with a Plan."

"Well, Peter, for one," he quickly replied - then stopped. Sylar frowned. "The Haitian," he added.

"That's cheating; the Haitian and my dad are usually partners. So you've got one and a half. I'm still waiting."

"The Japanese guy with a sword?" Sylar said.

"Two and a half," she replied, still bored.

They said nothing, each staring out their respective windows.

Sylar pulled his door open. "This is ridiculous. I'm going in after him." He turned back around, glaring at Claire. "Don't get me shot."

Claire waved cheerily to him through the window. "No promises!"

He glared again for good measure, then followed Noah into the theater.

Claire gave Sylar one minute. Then, getting out of the car as quietly as she could, she snuck around the back of the building.


	6. Puppets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dam_bunchofschist :)

The inside of Doyle's theater was as creepy as Claire had feared. Dolls dangled from strings on every surface, their mouths hanging wide in eerie gapes.

Farther into the theater, she spotted two shapes sitting at a table. Knocking into a box, she muffled a swear. Claire crept closer.

It made no sense. Why would her father and Sylar have just sat down at a table together? They weren't even speaking.

Claire stole over to her dad, tugging on his sleeve. "C'mon, Dad. Let's get out of here. Something's not right."

Her father's eyes flicked to her, looking frantic. Nothing else moved.

"Dad?"

A muffled sound came from Sylar. _Crap._ They'd been caught.

Claire tried to turn, to race out of the building. Her muscles wouldn't move.

Doyle sauntered around from behind her. A line of blood ran across his head - but not far enough. "Can't say I was expecting _you_ ," the balding man said, dragging his eyes up and down the length of her. Claire wished she could step out of her skin to wash it. "If he's the one of us," Doyle pointed to Sylar. "And he's the one of them," He pointed at her father, then turned to smile at Claire. "What does that make you?"

"Just a girl," Claire said. Her jaw grated in its socket as she spoke.

Doyle shook his head. "You called that one 'Dad'. Don't think I'm an idiot."

Claire forced herself to smile. "You're right. He is my dad. And I'm Claire. What's your name?"

Doyle ignored her pleasantries. "If the older one is your father, what does that make _him_?" Turning her head, he forced her to look at Sylar.

Rage boiled behind Sylar's eyes. As one who considered himself the apex predator, he _loathed_ being caged. If Claire could just crack that cage...

She kept her tone neutral. "He's my dad's partner. You knew that."

Doyle laughed. He touched the line of blood on his head. "He tried to kill me, _Claire._ That doesn't sound very professional."

"He's not," she replied. "He's new."

Saying nothing, Doyle looked her over again, taking his time. Claire squeezed her eyes shut.

He laid one sweaty palm on her shoulder. "You remind me of a girl I used to know. Meredith. I made her love me, once. I think I'll make you love me, too."

Bile rose in Claire's throat. Her _mom_? What had he _done_ to her?

Doyle ran his fingers through her hair. Pulling the strands to his face, he pressed his nose into it. Claire wished it still stunk of Sylar's brain goop. Her hand moved of its own accord, reaching toward Doyle's belt. Claire tried to pull away. Her arm didn't respond, just pulled her forward with a will stronger than iron.

Reaching behind Doyle's back, she drew out a gun.

He smiled, turning her arm to point the pistol at Sylar. "We don't need him. Kill the extra."

Claire blinked. Of all the things Doyle could have commanded, he'd picked the _one_ she'd always wanted to do. Sylar still stared at her, his rage still boiling, but without an ounce of concern. Survival wasn't the concern, though - breaking free was. Perhaps Claire could use this to crack the predator's cage.

Her hand trembled on the gun. "I've wanted to do this for a long time. I just didn't… have the guts."

Doyle stepped back, intrigued. Sylar raised an eyebrow, the entire extent of his freedom.

Claire raised the gun again. "My dad told me everything. You're a monster."

All curiosity left Sylar's face. It shifted into a mask of indifference.

"Let it all out, Claire," Doyle grinned. "It's your last chance to get it off your chest."

Her voice trembled. It dropped to a whisper. "How could you? You slept with my _sister!_ After all I'd sacrificed for you? For us?"

Immediately, Sylar's eyebrows rose. What game was she playing? Across from him, Noah looked ready to chew through steel. Sylar only enjoyed it all the more.

Claire strengthened her grip on the pistol. "I just want to hear it from you. How could you do this to me?"

Doyle still stood to the side, enjoying every second of her little melodrama.

"Was it the baby?" Claire said. "You know I didn't mean to lose it. I didn't mean to fall, I didn't mean to--" She broke off, overcome by emotion.

A tear blinked from Sylar's eye. It crept down his face, casting him as every inch the sorrowful lover. Internally, Claire did a victory dance. She _knew_ he'd be willing to play along!

"Please," Claire whispered. "Just tell me."

Doyle cracked. "Alright, schmuck," he said, stepping in front of Sylar. "Answer the pretty lady." With a gesture, he freed Sylar's mouth.

Sylar didn't waste a second. "STOP!" he yelled at Doyle. The full blast of his power slammed into the Puppetmaster. Doyle flew through the air, head over heels, crashing through the wall behind. His control snapped.

Claire fell to her knees, a puppet with cut strings. There was only one problem: they were in a theater; the wall Doyle had fallen through was a facade.

Sylar froze, his arm stretched toward Claire. Bennet stopped halfway out of his chair, his hand pulling his gun from its holster. Neither of the three of them moved an inch further.

"That was a neat trick," Doyle said, rising from the collapsed pile of balsa wood. "Don't think I'll let _that_ happen again."

Muffled noises came from Sylar, but nothing further. His eyes flicked to Claire, panic rising.

"Claiirree," Doyle waggled a finger at her as he approached. "Here I thought you were a _nice_ girl. Nice girls don't trick people, Claire."

"I didn't--"

With a gesture, Doyle held her mouth shut.

She screamed through her locked jaw. All that came out was a whimper.

"Let's empty your pockets, Claire. I want to make sure you don't have any other tricks you're planning."

Her hands following Doyle's gestures, Claire methodically took out every item. Her phone. An extra hair tie. A gum wrapper that had survived the wash. And… a syringe.

"I don't like the look of that, Claire," Doyle said. "What were you planning to inject with it?"

Her mouth locked, all Claire could make was another whimper.

Doyle pantomimed grabbing the syringe. Claire held it in both hands. He twisted. The syringe cracked.

With two immortals in the room, the only people that syringe could have helped were Doyle… and her father. For the first time, Claire was afraid. Her gaze flicked to Sylar. She knew he could feel her fear, could _tell_ he could feel it from the furious set of his brows. She'd never seen a man so ready to kill. Claire glanced at her father. His expression was identical to Sylar's.

Doyle smiled. "I know who you'll inject with it." He pantomimed hitting his arm. Claire jammed the syringe into her arm. He pulled his hand up his arm. Claire dragged the syringe through her flesh, tearing a line of blood up to her shoulder.

The Puppetmaster turned to Bennet, to Sylar, enjoying their impotent fury. "Watch closely, Schmuck, Dad. I'll make her suffer for every trick you--" Glancing back at Claire, Doyle stopped cold. Her arm had healed without a trace of blood.

"That's neat," Doyle whispered. "Do it again." He forced Claire's hand back down her arm, dragging another bloody line through her skin. Claire never even flinched. Doyle watched as her skin knit back into a seamless whole.

Sick pleasure spread across his face. Bennet yelled in muffled fury. With a gesture, Doyle released Bennet's mouth.

"Touch her again and I'll kill you," Bennet said. "But you can still live, Doyle. Let her walk away, let her--"

Doyle shook a finger. "I'm not going to lay a finger on her. _You_ are."

"Doyle! You can't--" But Bennet's mouth was wrenched shut.

Tapping a finger against his lips, Doyle surveyed the room. "Ah, yes, here we are." He moved his hands. With stiff motions, her father rose to his feet, walked across the room, opened a drawer. Noah pulled out a knife.

"It's a bit dull," Doyle said. "But I think you'll manage."

Fighting Doyle with every step, her father walked towards her. He paused, the knife hovering in the air. Doyle shifted to Claire, laying her hand flat on the table.

"She doesn't need all her fingers," Doyle said. "I want to see if they'll grow back." As he forced Noah to press the knife closer, he released their mouths.

"I'm so sorry, Claire," Noah whispered. "I should never have let you come, I should have protected you better--"

"It's okay, Dad," Claire said. "It's alright."

The blade pressed into her finger. Claire couldn't feel a thing. The knife moved back and forth, sawing through flesh.

Noah's gaze flicked to Doyle. "At least he's not making Gabriel do this to you," he said, adding extra emphasis. "I couldn't bear that."

"You couldn't?" Doyle looked even more interested. "Then we'll have to try it out."

With wooden steps, Noah moved away. Guided by Doyle's hand, Claire rose, walking toward Sylar. She took the knife from her father, passing it to Sylar.

"What do you want?" Claire asked Doyle. "What could you possibly get out of all this--"

Doyle shrugged. "Fun. I've been locked up in that Primatech basement for years. I have to stretch my legs while I can before one of you suit types manages to throw me back in." Again gesturing her and her father's mouths closed, he continued. "More fun. Less talking."

With leaden steps, Claire walked to Sylar. Doyle pantomimed sitting. She sat on Sylar's lap.

"Claire says you ripped her heart out." Doyle smiled. "Let's see if you can't do it for real."

With her father out of harm's direct path, Claire's fear had calmed to a low simmer. Even as Sylar raised the blade, her fear never stirred. A fist formed in his throat, knowing _why_ she no longer feared anything at his hands -- he'd already done everything she had once feared.

Down the blade plunged. Up -- down. Again. Blood soaked Claire's shirt, splattered across Sylar's. Her face never changed from bland endurance. Sylar, on the other hand, had never hated anything more in his life. For all his murders, his hand had never once moved against his will -- he'd meant every moment. This charade made him feel… dirty.

"Enough," Doyle said. He stepped closer to Claire. "He doesn't deserve you. I said I'd make you love me, Claire. That was a promise." Doyle leaned closer. Claire moved with him, leaning in as Doyle pressed his lips against hers. As sick as it was, Sylar found it far preferable than the violence at his own hands.

Noah's fear rose. It flared high and short -- and then low. A longer flare -- then low again. Then two more short flares. Dot dash dot dot. A single letter in Morse code -- 'L'. _Elle._

As Doyle kissed her, Claire still sat on Sylar's lap. Instantly, Sylar loosed every watt of electricity he had. The sparks seared through his chest, through his leg, through Claire -- and straight into Doyle.

The Puppetmaster's lips blackened. Doyle dropped to the ground. Smoke curled gently from his body.

Claire fell forward, sucking in ragged gasps of air. Black patches showed across her skin, already fading. Sylar winced, smelling the stench of burned flesh from her -- and from his thigh.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Claire, are you--"

She threw her arms around him. " _Thank you_ ," she breathed into his blood-soaked chest. "Thank you."

Sylar sat stunned. By the time he thought to return the hug, Claire had pulled away, standing.

Noah had already moved to Doyle, pressing two fingers against the monster's neck. "He's alive. You're off your game, Sylar."

Sylar rolled his eyes. "I had to send the jolt through _me_. _I_ can still feel pain, thank you very much."

"My heart breaks for you," Noah said, never looking away from the body. He zapped an instrument into Doyle's neck. "Now he won't wake up for a good, long time."

Looking down at the Puppetmaster, Sylar tilted his head. "That's good," he said absently. Inside, his clockwork mind was ticking. There Doyle lay, exposed, vulnerable… practically delivered to him on a silver platter.

Claire stepped between himself and Doyle. "You don't want his power, Sylar."

The Hunger won. "Oh, but I do." He raised a finger, reaching toward Doyle. Noah stepped back. He wasn't about to protect anyone who'd hurt his daughter.

Claire grabbed Sylar's wrist. Her thumb pressed into his palm, holding tight. "No, you don't. He's a _monster_ , Sylar. You don't want to be him."

Caught off-guard, he blinked stupidly at her. Meaning he wasn't a monster right now? Could she truly have meant that?

"You have enough power already," she said. "The ability to control people? That's…" Claire grimaced. "That's dirty."

Slowly, Sylar's hand fell. Claire let go.

"Doyle _beat_ me," he finally said. "When I fought him, he wrapped me up like it was nothing."

"No," Noah brusquely replied. Both Claire and Sylar turned to him. Inspecting each of Doyle's arms, Noah continued. "You never fought him, Sylar."

Sylar frowned. "Yes I did, you see my mark on his head--"

"You never _fought_ him," Noah insisted. "You tried to kill him, sure. But if for _one second_ you'd thought with your head instead of your damned stomach, Doyle would have been wearing his guts on the outside before he'd ever had a _chance_ to lay a hand on Claire."

Sylar's frown deepened. Was Bennet right? Had he been more focused on stealing Doyle's power than beating him? Probably.

"Oh, and speaking of Claire…" In one fluid motion, Noah stood, firing a shot through Sylar's thigh.

Screaming, Sylar grabbed his leg, dropping to the ground.

A wry smile twisted on Noah's face. He shrugged. "I _did_ promise." With that, Noah walked from the building, dragging Doyle's body behind him.

Claire dropped to the floor next to Sylar. "That wasn't fair of him, I'm sorry--"

"Since when," he gritted out through the pain. "Is your father ever fair?"

Claire sighed, admitting the point. "At least Doyle didn't figure out you could heal. A test subject who could _feel_ pain would have made him way too happy."

Sylar stared at her. Claire didn't want him to feel pain? Had _worried_ over Doyle discovering that he could? The pain was already subsiding in his leg as it knit back together. "You really hate Doyle, don't you?"

"He was disgusting!" Claire scrubbed the back of her hand against her mouth. "I'd rip my lips off if it would make the feeling go away."

A muscle spasmed in Sylar's jaw. "And you _still_ don't want me to kill him? I could walk out there right now and--"

"Of course not," Claire cut him off.

"If I'd killed him," Sylar said, "if Doyle hadn't snapped your syringe, would you have given him your blood? Would you have brought him back?"

She said nothing, considering the question.

He snorted, looking away. "Surely you don't think _Doyle_ deserves a second chance."

At least _that_ one she could answer; the realization had hit back when she'd saved Jesse. "If he deserved a second chance," Claire said, "he wouldn't need one."

Sylar stared at her. "You can't possibly…"

"I don't know if I would have helped him," Claire answered, standing. "But I hope that I would have."

Noah honked the horn of the car. It idled outside the small bookstore in the even smaller town. "If I have to wait another second for him, Claire, I swear I'll…" He cut off, shaking his head in a silent vow of vengeance.

Right as they'd been about to leave this awful town, Sylar had run inside the shop, promising to 'only be a moment'... nearly ten minutes ago.

"You shot him, Dad," Claire replied from the backseat. "Give him a break. Go get a coffee or something."

Noah turned around. "Are you defending him? The man who--"

"I know what he did," Claire said evenly. "We made a deal and I'm fine. All I'm saying is, I wouldn't be feeling too nicely toward the person who put a _bullet_ \--"

Noah gripped the back of the seat. "You made a deal with him? That's incredibly dangerous, Claire. What sort of deal?"

 _The sort you'd exploit if you knew_.

"Can you leave _anything_ alone? Ever?" she said instead.

With a sigh, Noah turned back around. He killed the ignition. "I'm getting a coffee. You want anything?"

Claire smiled, glad her diversion had worked. "My usual."

"You got it, Claire Bear."

A minute passed. Claire wondered if she should have gone with her dad, for the change of scenery, if nothing else. Another two excruciating hours locked in the silent car loomed ahead of her. Making up her mind, Claire reached for the door handle--

The passenger door opened. Sylar dropped in, flinging something at her.

Claire caught it. A book? She turned it over. _Morse Code for Dummies_. "Really?" Claire drawled.

He shrugged, a smile twitching on his lips. "Have to start somewhere."

"Did you steal this? Is that what took so long?"

His grin broadened. Proudly, Sylar displayed a slip of paper -- a receipt. "I _bought_ it."

"I'm proud of you," she said. Abruptly, Claire realized it was the truth. She was proud of that flimsy paper in his hand. He hadn't hurt _anyone_ for his personal convenience. In fact, he'd _been_ hurt -- twice: shocking Doyle and by her father -- and still kept to his word.

The bottom part of the receipt caught her eye. "You signed as Noah Bennet? Was this his credit card?"

Sylar shrugged, still beaming. "Baby steps."

As Angela walked Sylar back to his cell, she expressed her pride, her admiration in her third son. His first successful mission!

Sylar expressed himself, as well, in two requests.

Angela beamed. "Anything."

"A paycheck," he said. "And a TV in my cell."

She raised one eyebrow, a trait Sylar wondered if he'd inherited. "Of course, Gabriel. But you have Bob's gift of alchemy. Why ask for a paycheck?"

He shrugged, dropping onto the cell's less-than-comfortable bed. "Have you ever tried bartering a lump of gold at a bookstore?"

With a smile, she bent forward, kissing his head. "I'll get right on it. And the TV?"

Sylar looked away. "I need to watch Terminator 2."


	7. Peter

There was knocking at his cell door. Sylar rose from his cot, closing his book. He couldn't exactly open the door, could only wait--

The door buzzed. Claire entered. Her hair fell perfectly around her face, her green eyes bright and flushed with happiness.

"Hi," she said. Her good mood faltered as she looked at the austere concrete cell.

"Hello," he replied, putting the book on the side table next to his TV. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to--" Claire broke off. Fear surged in her.

Sylar immediately backpedaled. "Why are you afraid of me?"

"Not of you, idiot," she muttered. Facing her fear head-on, Claire looked him in the eye. "I want to test the limits of my power. See how much I can heal, how quickly." Her fear surged again. "Will you help me?"

He frowned. "Not if you're so afraid of it."

"I'm not afraid! I was just…" She sighed. "I was nervous about asking you." True to her word, her fear vanished with that admission.

Claire wanted him to… what? To rip her arm off, see how quickly she could grow a new one? To put thousands of watts of electricity through her, see how much she could take before she melted into a quivering puddle of goop? He stepped back. "I'm not willing to hurt you, Claire."

"You _can't_ hurt me! I--"

"No."

His jaw clenched, trying to keep from getting angry. She thought that was an _easy_ thing to ask him? To just casually stroll in and--?

No, she hadn't thought it was easy. It was why she'd been afraid. Sylar turned away, facing the wall.

She sighed. "Fine. Then keep reading your book and let me practice."

Now he really was confused. "What?"

Concentrating, Claire flared her fear. M-O-R-S-E.

With a twitch of a smile, Sylar dropped back on his bed. "If you're that bored, be my guest."

The metal chair scraped across the concrete floor as she dragged it over. Pulling open his book, Sylar flicked his gaze up to her. "Why do you want to practice?"

TO GET FAST, she flared. USELESS IF SLOW.

"True enough," he replied, turning the page. It was hard focusing on her message while reading but he always enjoyed a challenge. "Am I your favorite uncle, yet?"

PETER, was her immediate reply. HOME--

Home? Sylar wondered. She felt at home with Peter? She barely knew the man.

HOMECOMING.

"Ah." Because Peter had saved her from _him_ , from the Boogeyman. Sylar turned a page without finishing it. "What do you think of your grandmother?"

Claire waited before phrasing her answer. WANTED NUKE NY. MAYBE BETTER NOW.

Sylar snorted. He doubted it. Angela liked _him,_ didn't she?

"You're getting good at using your fear." His eyes flicked up to hers. "How do you do it?"

Claire's face hardened. JACKIE.

Jackie? Sylar didn't know any Jackie. He thought back with a sudden sinking feeling. The cheerleader he'd killed. The not-Claire cheerleader. What had her name been?

He was pretty sure it had been Jackie.

Sylar frowned, closing his book. "Claire, I'm so--"

In an instant, Peter appeared in the cell with them.

His eyes locked on Sylar. Peter rushed across the cell, throwing Sylar to the wall. His hand gripped Sylar by the throat.

"Peter!" Claire screamed. He ignored her.

"What are you doing?" Sylar struggled to say around Peter's hand, choking him.

"I went to the future." Peter's face held the desperation of a man pushed beyond the edge. "The world _ends_. I took your ability so that I can understand how to stop it."

"Peter, stop this!" Claire said. "This isn't you!"

"It is him, Claire," Sylar replied. Even with Peter's hand around his neck, he managed a smile. "He took my ability. He has The Hunger, now. Just like me."

"I will never let myself become you!" Peter yelled.

Claire ran up to Peter, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Peter, calm down, we can all--"

With his other hand, he flung Claire to the wall. Her head cracked as she slid down.

"You already are like me," Sylar snarled. "Brother."

In a burst of violent rage, Peter screamed defiance -- and snapped Sylar's neck. His head twisted sideways. Sylar dropped.

Immediately, Peter turned to Claire. "What are you doing here? With _him_?"

"Talking," Claire spat, getting to her feet. "What is _wrong_ with you, Peter?"

"I saw you," he replied. "In the future, you kill me."

"Peter, you know me! That's not me! I would never do that!"

"I know." With one hand, Peter lifted Claire in the air, using his invisible force to pin her against the window. "And the Claire I know isn't friends with Sylar, either. Maybe this is how it all begins."

Peter pointed a finger at her head. Claire screamed.

She kicked her feet against the glass, knowing it wouldn't make any difference. Blood ran down her face. She'd been here before. This time, her worst nightmare wore the face of her hero. This time, there was no Peter here to save her.

"Don't do this, Peter," Claire cried. Her tears mixed with the blood dripping down her cheeks. "You already have my power. You don't need to do this!"

"I _want_ it!" Peter said. "You don't understand!"

Behind him, Sylar stood. He twisted his head back on.

With a flick of his wrist, Sylar tossed Peter through the glass. It shattered, Peter's body skidding across the hallway.

Claire crumpled to the floor, sobbing. Sylar stepped towards her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Claire, it's alright. Peter's not going to hurt you."

She yanked her shoulder away from him, glaring up through blood-soaked hair. "You did this to him! This is _your_ power making him crazy!"

Sylar took a step back. "That was the future, Claire. I didn't--"

"Fix him!" she yelled. "He's not supposed to be like this! Like _you!_ "

It felt like she'd slapped him. "I _can't_ fix him. I don't know how--"

"FIX HIM!"

Claire stormed from the cell, blood dripping in her wake. The cell door slammed behind her.

"I don't know how to fix myself," Sylar whispered.

"Claire!" Bennet's voice called from the hallway. "What happened! You--"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Sylar leaned to see through the shattered glass of his cell. Angela stood at the exit to the level, a restraining hand pressed against Noah's chest as Claire surged past, slamming the door to the level behind her.

"I'll deal with Claire, Noah," Angela said. "You deal with my son who _didn't_ just try to kill his niece."

Noah twisted away from Angela. He stormed to Sylar's cell, fury in his eyes as he punched the door open. "Let's go."

"There's another mission?" Sylar said, stepping through. "Should we go get Claire--"

Noah shoved his forearm under Sylar's chin, pinning him to the wall by his throat. _Second time today_.

"Let me get one thing straight with you," Noah said. "Whatever you're doing with my daughter, it _ends._ Now."

"She came to me," Sylar replied. "I didn't do anything--"

Noah pressed harder. "The Puppetmaster was bad enough. This guy? The one we're tracking down? He could make Claire disappear _forever_. By _accident._ She doesn't set foot within ten miles of him. You got me?"

Sylar glanced at Peter's body lying in the hallway. Even now, technicians dragged him to a cell, shoving a tube up his nose. Just a few days ago, Sylar had been where Peter was. It hadn't been pleasant. Every inch he'd gained since then had come by clawing his way upwards. Through all of it, there had only been two people on his side: Angela… and Claire.

He swallowed painfully around the pressure from Noah's arm. "I understand."

An hour-long shower still hadn't washed the horror away. Claire watched the water run over her head, down her arms, swirling down the drain, the water now tainted pink from her blood.

Whenever she had problems, she could always go to Peter. He was safe, he was hers, he cared for her and would never harm her.

Claire had never felt so alone.

Killing the water, she stepped out, toweling dry. The upper rooms weren't plush, were closer to what she'd imagined from an army base, but her spartan room was still leagues better than the literal cell Sylar used in the basement.

She stepped into a fresh change of clothes (her earlier outfit would have to be burned before it could ever remind her of today) and headed out the door.

Claire wasn't sure where she could go. Dad's one condition on her staying here was that she didn't leave the compound (stupid, but whatever) and while normally she would have snuck away regardless, today she wasn't feeling like much of a rebel.

So instead, she wandered to the elevator, pressing her key card against the box. Claire didn't register the usual surge of pride at having her own card. She felt nothing. Stepping into the elevator, she pressed the red button marked '5'.

It was oddly silent down here. Jesse slept in his cell, Flint flicked fireballs aimlessly, Doyle had a sedation drip in his nose, and Sylar--

Wasn't here.

Angela stood in the hallway, looking in on the cell _next_ to Sylar's, the one without a shattered window.

"Gabriel left with your father, if you're looking for him."

"I'm not," Claire said, unsure if she was lying. Instead, she walked over to Angela, looking where she looked.

Peter. He lay on a slab in the cell, the standard sedation tube in his nose. Even in sleep, his brow was furrowed, angry. Claire couldn't find a trace of the open, caring man she'd come to depend on.

"Is he going to be okay?" Claire asked.

"No one knows," Angela replied. "All my dreams came to this, to Peter covered in blood." She glanced at Claire. "Your blood, often." She looked back at her son. "Mine, other times."

"It's not his fault," Claire whispered. "Sylar's power, it--"

"Isn't it?" Angela said, one eyebrow raised. "Taking Gabriel's power was Peter's choice. He accepted that responsibility."

For a long moment, neither woman said anything.

"Gabriel cut open your head," Angela said without pretext. Claire took a step back, but Angela grabbed her wrist like a manacle. "Now is not the time to be squeamish, child. He cut open your head, played with your brain. He took your power."

"Yes," Claire said, feeling cornered. What was she getting at?

"You're the only person on the planet who survived it. Ever since, what has Gabriel been like towards you?"

Claire frowned. "You've seen him. You know."

"I want your assessment."

"He's been…" Claire thought back, truly considering. He'd still thrown her around with his powers a couple of times, he'd killed West in front of her, killed Bishop, Jesse, Elle. But all in all… "He's been normal."

It wasn't the full truth. Claire knew _exactly_ how Sylar had been treating her: like Frankenstein's monster, finally learning how to make a friend.

Angela nodded slowly, thoughts turning over as she stared at her favorite son. "But Peter already had your power. He didn't need to cut open your head."

"He had it, yeah. But he hadn't _taken_ it."

Her grandmother turned to her. "Explain."

Claire made a helpless gesture. "Sylar's a _predator._ He was furious yesterday at being caught by Doyle -- even after he fried the guy. It's not about _having._ It's about taking."

Angela looked back at her son. "I think you're right," she whispered. "And if you are, the whole world is in danger."

"What? How? Peter's the most capable one of any of us, he--"

Angela stared her dead in the eyes. "Peter _has_ powers before he even knows he's absorbed them. If he's become a predator, he's a shark surrounded by nothing but dead fish. A shark that can't eat _dies_."

"Oh." Claire stared at Peter through the glass, still sleeping away. "Their powers are incompatible," she whispered.

"Quite," Angela replied. "It's an endless feedback loop. The only thing worse would be giving Peter's power to Gabriel."

Claire stopped cold. "What did you say?"

"Peter's power. With it, Gabriel might quite literally go insane."

"No," Claire said, anger hardening her heart. " _Giving_ Peter's power to him. You couldn't have meant--"

Angela stepped forward, patting Claire's cheek. "I did indeed mean it. I've considered it many times, as a possible cure for Gabriel. Since Peter has your ability, he'd survive Gabriel's… methods. It's a good thing I didn't act prematurely, or else _both_ of them would be in this sorry state." Unconcerned, she walked past Claire, down the hallway.

Claire turned after her. "That's _murder!_ You can't just hand over your son to be killed! That's--"

"Oh, Claire." Angela's smile turned pitying. "It wouldn't be the first person I've gift-wrapped for Gabriel."

Noah rapped his knuckles on the door of the innocent-looking suburban house. "Now remember," he said to Sylar, standing next to him. "When we get in there--"

"I know, I know," Sylar replied. "Let you do all the talking."

"Right."

A thud drifted from inside. No one was answering the door.

Taking a step back, Noah pulled his gun from its holster. With one swift kick, he knocked the door in.

Scrambling sounds came from a back room. Both men raced toward it.

"Canfield!" Noah called as he ran. "We just want to talk!"

The scrambling intensified. They burst into the room.

Canfield stood at the opposite end of the room, his hand outstretched. "Stay back, I'm--"

Sylar flicked a finger. Canfield slammed into the wall, his face pressed against the paint.

A shifting blue vortex swirled into existence at Sylar's feet. With a twitch from Sylar, Canfield's arm snapped. The man screamed.

"Alright, alright!" Canfield yelled. "I'll come in quietly!" The vortex vanished.

Noah gave Sylar a level look.

Sylar shrugged innocently. "I let you do all the talking."

Noah and Sylar strode back into Primatech. Sylar felt his good mood practically bubbling over. Its source walked along next to Noah, his right arm in a sling. Canfield, alive and -- mostly -- well, without even a scratch on his forehead.

Claire stood at the entrance to the building. There was a hardened set to her face that Sylar had no idea how to gauge.

"Claire!" he grinned as he approached. "I did it! I didn't kill anyone!"

Her arms crossed over her chest, she continued glaring at him. Sylar's good mood faltered.

Noah paused, his arm still ushering the injured Canfield along. "Is everything alright?"

"Peachy," she replied, not moving her eyes from Sylar. "Just need to chat with your _partner_."

"Claire--"

"I'm fine, Dad."

With one last glare at Sylar, Noah walked inside.

Sylar stood waiting in front of Claire, trying to think back to what he could have possibly done _now_. He'd saved her from Peter, for all the thanks he'd gotten.

"Bridget Zielinski." Her glare never faltered.

"What?"

"Valued agent with the Company for six years. Key to their research and tracking department. Wife, sister, mother of two."

Sylar stared blankly.

If anything, his silence only made Claire all the more furious. "Ability to touch an object and see its history. The agent Angela _fed_ to you."

_Oh. Oh, no._

Her smile was vicious. "Of course _now_ you know her. Once I got to the only part of her that mattered to you."

"Claire--" he tried to plead, unsure what he could possibly say.

She held out a company ID badge. _Bridget Zielinski,_ it read, with a picture of her proudly smiling face. "Touch it," Claire dared him. "Look your horrors in the eyes."

He touched it. Instead of getting hints, flavors of an object's history, as he had ever since acquiring her power, Sylar focused. He flexed whatever invisible muscle saw memories -- flexed it _hard_.

As always, it began at the ending.

* * *

" _Cremated?"_ Claire screamed at some desk warrior, deep in the bureaucratic depths of Primatech. "You _cremated_ her body?!"

The ID badge sat in a tray with other odds and ends. Keys, a wallet in the shape of a cat, a photo of her and a man alongside two girls too young to know how to fake a smile. A watch with _Always and Forever_ engraved on the back. Other trays sat next to it in the uniform gray shelf rack.

"Miss," the desk warrior replied without a hint of perturbation. "It's standard procedure for a cremation when an agent is killed in the line of duty. Spares the family a lot of unnecessary heartache."

Claire looked like she wanted to give whoever invented that 'procedure' some unnecessary heartache -- with her fists. "Do you have _anything_ of hers left? Or did you cremate that, too?"

The desk warrior gestured to the tray. "Just what she had on her at the time of death."

Claire pointed at the ID card. "That. Give me that."

The ID card lay atop a gray, cloth surface, spattered with the occasional red highlight.

A man in a white plastic smock and hairnet bent over the ID card. He unclasped a watch. "One watch." He turned it over. "Personal engraving on the back."

He unclipped the badge from Bridget's chest, wiping off a sheen of blood. "One ID card." He chuckled as he set it in the tray. "Looks like she kept it in mint condition."

Angela leaned over the monster. Abruptly, she sat up, sending a brief, apologetic look toward the corner of the room. Toward Bridget, her ID card sparkling against her gray suit. Confusion crinkled Bridget's face.

She only had a moment before the monster fell upon her.

Then she screamed.

And screamed.

And stopped.

"This is a special case," Angela said, her high-heels clicking in syncopation with Bridget's as they strode through the hallways. "We've been hunting him for a while and understanding what _drove_ him here is a high priority."

Bridget's ID card swung on her chest as she walked. "I understand. Researching Jesse was my first real assignment, remember?"

Angela laughed. "Yes, I do! My, what a grisly case to give a rookie agent."

Bridget chuckled. "I _did_ wish I hadn't eaten fish beforehand."

With another chuckle from Angela, the ladies fell silent.

"Is there anything I should know? That I should be looking for?" Bridget asked.

"Partial decapitations are his specialty. We're interested to know _how_ it works, but short of that, anything you can find will be illuminating."

Bridget nodded. "He'll be sedated throughout the entire process, of course."

"Of course."

Bridget pinned the badge to the chest of her gray suit, giving herself a proud smile in the mirror.

"But you've been planning this trip for months!" an older woman called from another room. "I don't understand why--"

Bridget rolled her eyes, exiting the bedroom. The house was tight, cozy. Bridget banged her shin on the coffee table, muffling a curse as she joined the older woman in the kitchen. Something bubbled atop the stove and the woman quickly turned it off.

"Adrian already has the girls up in Laughlin, Mama," Bridget replied, dipping a finger into the soup to taste it. "I'll only be here a couple more days -- tops."

Her mama frowned. "But if your boss had an emergency--"

"Not my boss, Mama," Bridget said, pressing a kiss into the woman's grey hair. "My _boss's_ boss. She asked for me, specifically. I can't say no to _her_! It'll only be a few days. Then, who knows? Maybe she'll end up liking me."

Her mama turned around with a fond smile. "Of course she'll like you, Mija. But how do you have an emergency at a _paper_ company?"

Six years of assignments flashed by. Images of criminals caught, of crime scenes investigated. Primatech would even lend her out to the local authorities whenever a regular sort of criminal proved too elusive. No one could escape her all-seeing eye for long.

Six years where the badge sat discarded on a shelf flickered past. Of bringing her daughter home from the hospital, weary, the bassinet in her husband's arms. Of her other daughter running up to greet her -- and bursting into tears at the sight of the new competition. Of Christmases and fiestas, of small griefs and pains.

Once again, Bridget stood in front of a mirror, examining her gray suit. She tugged the jacket down, readjusted the lapels.

"My, don't you look professional," a male voice drawled from the bed.

She threw a pillow at him. "Don't make fun!"

"I'm not!" he laughed, dodging it. "You'll be the best paper salesman this Primatech has ever seen."

"Don't you know it!" she said, the words, even now, sounding a little forced.

"You should add sunglasses," the man continued, slipping off the bed to pull on a robe. "Then you'd look like… you know, like an Agent. Real CIA stuff."

Bridget laughed. "Now you _are_ making fun!"

He shrugged. "Only a little." Walking closer, he draped his arms around her shoulders. "You're missing something, though."

"Oh? What's that? One of those little Men in Black flashy things?"

Pressing a kiss against her neck, he slipped his arm around her chest, pinning on her ID card.

"Your badge," he said, laughing. "Go round up some nasty paper criminals."

Linderman sat in the big desk in the office, Angela in the chair in front of him.

"This… Bridget," he drawled. "She can be trusted?"

"Completely," Angela replied. "She thought she was having psychotic delusions. She's very grateful to us for setting her on the right path, for giving her gift proper focus."

Linderman nodded, reviewing her file. "Apparently, she came to us without even a history of preexisting violence. You've no idea how rare that's becoming." He handed Angela a freshly laminated ID card. "She'll make a great addition to the research team."

Angela smiled as she took it. "I'll go welcome her myself."

* * *

Sylar dropped to the ground, sobs wracking his body. He'd killed her. He'd coveted her gift and he'd killed her. Angela had delivered her like a lamb to the slaughter, but he'd been the unfeeling axe, chopping down on Bridget's neck.

She had a mother, a husband, and two children who would miss her for the rest of their lives.

Sylar had a neat trick with objects.

"I can take it back," he said, not caring that ugly tears coursed down his face. "That Japanese guy, he can travel through time, I'll show him how to beat me -- I'll go with him! Then we can set it right--"

Leaning closer to him, Claire shook her head. "Bridget is _one_. One you killed _last week_. How many others are there? Not just ones whose heads you cut open; how many people have you thrown out of buildings, flipped over in cars? How many have you tossed out of your way like garbage?"

"I don't know," he whispered. " But I'm immortal; I can find out. I have time to make it right."

Claire raised an eyebrow. " _I'm_ immortal. You're a thief."

Sylar dropped his head, hating himself with every fiber in his being. He barely even _used_ Bridget's talent. She'd undermined an entire cartel -- through grit and cleverness and without even a slightly offense-related power. Sylar wished he'd stuck to watches. It was the only thing he'd ever done that had _improved_ anything around him.

How did one deal with the fact the world would be a drastically better place if they'd never been born?

"I was right upstairs with my magic blood," Claire said. "You _knew_ that and you still didn't even bother to come get me."

"I assumed Angela would…" But that was a flimsy excuse. He hadn't bothered assuming anything. The only thing he'd known was that she was a meal -- and he was hungry.

"I'm so sorry, Claire," he said. "About Jackie, about your head, about everything. I tried to kill myself, once, and I should have succeeded--"

Claire grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up at her. "Listen to me," she said. "That solves _nothing_. You can't make up for murders by ending _another_ human life."

His face sat without protest in her hand. Seeing him passively sitting there, taking every jab she threw at him, something in Claire softened. Letting go, she crouched down at his level. "You have these gifts now. You _can't_ give them back." Finally, pity touched her voice. "So. What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know," he said.

"Angela's in a coma. Here's your best chance to figure it out."

"She's my _mother_." He shuddered. "Apparently, monsters run in the family."

"Not all mothers are good role models," Claire said. "Besides, I'm adopted, too. I'd certainly call Noah my real dad over Nathan."

"My father left," Sylar said. "My 'real' mother pushed me into the monster I became and I accidentally killed her."

There was nothing Claire could say to that. "You can find different role models. Or, if you can't -- be your own."

With a final sniffle, Sylar wiped his nose on the back of his hand. She made it sound as easy as picking out groceries. Sure. He'd make an ex-serial killer into his role model. No sweat. Who wouldn't want _Sylar_ as a role model? "Why did you tell me this? Why bother with any of it?"

"So that you know what Peter is up against," Claire said. "He's in trouble. I have an idea, but I need your help."


	8. Immolation

Sylar didn't like her idea. 

'Didn't like' was an understatement. 

"Claire, that is the most dangerous, idiotic thing I've ever heard of!"

He strode next to her down the Primatech hallways, amazed at the speed determination could give to her little legs. 

"I've done it before," she said resolutely. "Survived it then. I'll survive it again."

But longer legs always won. He stepped around her, blocking her path. "Claire, I know I said you were unkillable, but letting Peter rip apart your brain is the closest you'll ever get to dying for good--"

She shoved past him. "Are you worried that Peter is _inexperienced_ as a monster? Worried he won't be as _surgical_ as the talented Sylar?" 

Sylar grabbed her shoulders. " _Yes_. My first kills were… horrid. Messy. That shouldn't be you."

She snorted. "You want Peter to get some practice, first? On people who _won't_ come back from it?" 

"Well," Sylar said, "there's always your syringe--"

Her eyes flashed with hatred. "No." Again, she shoved past him. 

This time, he didn't follow. Sylar simply called out, "Claire, you can't feel pain!" 

She stopped. "What did you say?" 

"You can't feel pain," he repeated. "I've touched your hand, I've seen how much you hate it. How you open your wrists every day, just to check if it's come back, if you've become human again--" 

Her eyes blazed. "Your point?"

"That I don't know what else he could break," Sylar said softly. "What Peter could take from you without even trying."

"That I'll become an emotionless killer?" she said, striding up to stand toe-to-toe with Sylar. "Like you?" 

Sylar said nothing. Yes, that was one fear among the endless. 

"Then they can lock me up in a cell to rot," she said. "I don't care. Peter's more important than I'll ever be."

"That's not true," Sylar blurted without thinking. 

"Oh?" Her sweet smile held a threat of violence. "Save the Cheerleader, save the world?" 

That hadn't been what he'd meant at all. Though, he had no idea how to put what he _had_ meant into words. "You're like Bridget," Sylar finally settled on. "Special to everyone around her. Weren't you _just_ trying to show me that people like her were important?" 

Claire looked away. Emotion welled up in her throat. Surrounded by people with powers, she felt lesser. Surrounded by normal people, she felt like a freak. It was the first time she'd ever felt… seen. If she was trying to teach Sylar that every life had value, she had to include her own. 

Claire coughed, clearing her throat before she could speak. "I still can't let Peter self-destruct," she finally said. "No matter how many people I'm special to."

"I know," Sylar replied. 

"So?" Claire looked up at him. "Do you have any better ideas than letting Peter play around in my brain?" 

"Not really."

She snorted, setting off again. "Then all I need you to do is shut the door behind me. I'd have asked -- literally anyone else -- but they're all insane when it comes to protecting me. I thought _you_ might at least be reasonable."

"I'm not trapping you in a cell with him, Claire."

Spinning to face Sylar, she threw her hands in the air. "Then what the hell--" 

"If you wake Peter up, no door will hold him." Sylar leaned down, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I'm going in there with you."

  
  


Inside his cell, Peter's eyes slowly blinked open. Claire sat next to him on his slab. Sylar stood in front of the sealed door, guarding it, and, more importantly, _her_ , without any notion what the word 'guard' meant. He'd never done it before. 

Recognition crept into Peter's face. "Claire?" he said, struggling to sit up. "Claire, I'm dangerous! You're not safe in here, you have to get away--"

Claire grabbed his hand. She tried to muster all her reassurance into a single smile. "It's alright, Peter."

With every second, his brain cleared further. "It's _not_ , I can feel it--" His eyes landed on the black-cloaked shadow in the corner of the cell. "Run! Sylar's here, he--"

"I'm here because Claire asked me to be," Sylar said. At her glare, he clarified. "And I refused to leave her alone with you."

"Smart," Peter replied, watching Sylar through untrusting eyes. "Claire, between him and me, this is the most dangerous place on the planet. Why…?"

With a smile, she put a hand against Peter's face. "Because you have to beat the Hunger before you hurt someone who _can't_ recover from it."

Peter looked away. Some deep emotion warred across his face. Slowly, Claire let her hand drop, unsure what to do. 

"I already have hurt someone." His voice was barely more than a whisper. "In the future, I killed Nathan. _I'm_ what ends the world, Claire. My brother, the President, came to offer me clemency and I _killed_ him." He punched his fist down into the slab. "For a power I already have!"

"Did you…" Claire hated herself for having to press, but her plan hinged on it. "Did you get to his power? When you killed him."

Peter looked at her, disgusted. "Of course not. I panicked and came here."

"And blamed me for the whole thing," Sylar said from the corner. "Ironic."

Peter pointed a finger at him. "You shut up!"

Sylar shrugged and pantomimed zipping his lips. 

"Peter," Claire said, taking his hand again. "I think this Hunger is going to eat you alive unless you get it under control. Unless you _feel_ what it's like, how empty it is to feed it."

Peter glared at Sylar. "Did you put her up to this?"

Touching his 'zipped' lips, Sylar gestured helplessly. 

"No," Claire replied. "He's against it."

"Good," Peter said. "It's a terrible idea. It'd never work."

"Oh, I definitely think it could work," Sylar said, conveniently back to speaking. "I don't think you'll like it--"

"Of course I won't!" Peter said.

"--which is _why_ I think it could work." Sylar looked far too smug.

Peter turned to look back at Claire. A muscle clenched and unclenched in his jaw. "What's your plan?"

"Simple." She shrugged. "You open my head and take my power."

"Claire, I'm not going to do that--!"

"You still want it, don't you?" Claire said, ignoring him. "You're fighting the urge right this second."

Peter swallowed. "Yes."

"Then one day you'll slip, you'll lose that fight -- and it _won't_ be with me. It'll be with Nathan, or your mom, or Molly Walker!" Claire straightened, brushing her hair away from her temples. "Get it over with now so that you won't slip with them."

"I can't do that to you on purpose, Claire--" 

Claire sighed, then looked to Sylar. "I am not having this debate again. Sylar? Could you help him out?"

Sylar frowned. "He won't listen to me any more than he did to you."

Claire shook her head. "I don't think a shark will be able to resist the smell of blood. Start the cut."

Horrified, Sylar backed away. 

"Claire!" Peter grabbed her by the shoulders. "That's crazy! Stop this!" 

She looked only at Sylar, waiting for his response. 

Every inch of him was afraid. "You trust that I'll be able to stop myself?"

Claire's gaze held no doubt. "Yes."

Sylar took a deep breath. It was only the fate of the world. But, more importantly, it was the fate of Claire. Slowly, he raised his finger. A line of blood crept across her head. 

Peter flung his hand at Sylar. "Get away from her!" 

Sylar was thrown backward, smacking into the cell wall. 

A spark of hope stirred in Claire. Had she been wrong? Was Peter already back to normal, back to protecting her?

Peter raised his finger. Fresh blood dripped into her eyes as Peter smiled. "You have the best power of all of them, Claire." He continued cutting. 

"I know," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. The only pain she felt came from seeing Peter at the other end of all the blood. She would have preferred physical pain.

Sylar got to his feet, watching Peter devour Claire like a lion with a piece of zebra. Peter hadn't wanted Sylar to stop for Claire's sake -- he'd wanted all the meat for himself. Sylar could barely make himself watch the bloody scene before him; it was too much like watching himself. Suddenly, he understood why Claire had trusted him; Sylar never wanted to be that person ever again -- and Claire had already known it. 

Peter shifted his telekinetic grip, continuing the cut around the back of her head.

Claire clutched at her neck, struggling for air. "Peter. I can't-- Peter, please--"

Peter continued cutting. 

Lightning zapped from Sylar. "You're choking her!"

It crackled into Peter's chest. He looked at Sylar, furious at the interruption. Claire still struggled around invisible hands grasping her throat. 

Slowly, Peter shifted, releasing her. Claire sucked in ragged breaths. Peter kept cutting. 

"Claire," Sylar said, "If you want me to--"

"I'm fine," she replied. But the look she shot him was full of gratitude. If Sylar hadn't been here, Peter would have refused to try, choked her when he did, and then… who knew. 

The top of Claire's head floated away. Seeing the pumping brain, Sylar couldn't help but be mesmerized. It was so pink and… _perfect_. Her power truly was the best of all of them. 

Peter flipped Claire to the floor. She fell with a thud, her hair splayed out, her limbs pinned with the weight of an invisible truck. He moved around her, peering into her head. 

"Be careful," Sylar said, never taking his eyes off the other man. "Don't touch anything you don't have to." 

Peter made no reply. Transfixed with her brain, he ran one finger over a lobe. Sylar winced. 

Through the window, Sylar spotted the last person he wanted to see: Noah Bennet. It took her father less than a second to see Sylar, Peter… and Claire on the floor of the cell, missing the top half of her head. In less than a second, Noah raised his gun and fired. 

The glass shattered. The bullets froze in front of Sylar's outstretched hand. 

On the floor behind him, Peter stuck a finger into Claire's brain.

"Ow," Claire said, puzzled. "Peter, that hurts."

He continued prodding. 

Bennet reloaded. "Sylar!" He yelled. "Back off! Now!" 

Claire winced. "You're hurting me, Peter!" 

Bennet fired. Sylar threw him across the hallway. 

"PETER!" Claire screamed. 

"That's it," Peter breathed. "That's how it works." 

Noah struggled to his feet. Sylar couldn't deal with him right now. Ripping open the final cell door, he threw Noah inside, shutting it tight. 

Claire continued screaming. From the opening in her head, a line of skin tore open, stretching down across her forehead. Blood gushed forth. The line grew, crossing her nose. 

Peter reached back for her head, grinning. 

"ENOUGH!" Sylar flew to land between them. He flung Peter into the far wall. 

Peter threw lightning at Sylar. Knowing he couldn't move or it would hit Claire, Sylar braced for the pain. 

Arcs crisscrossed his body, his head thrown back in agony. Snarling, Sylar launched his own lightning back at Peter. 

Peter flew out of the way. Still hovering, radiation glowed in his fist. He blasted it toward Sylar. 

Sylar turned his back to the searing heat. Claire could be injured, could be anything -- he couldn't move. He felt his flesh bubble away. 

Abruptly, the radiation stopped. Peter stood staring down at his own hands. 

Claire grabbed the top of her head, slipping it back into place. With her skull lined up, immediately the ring of blood began to heal. Blood still clung to her skin where it had dripped, but especially down the middle, where she'd bled while screaming. 

Still standing over her, his chest heaving with pain, Sylar reached a hand down. "Are you okay?" 

Claire took his hand, pulling herself up. "I think so. Thanks." She didn't let go. 

Together, they both turned to look at Peter. 

"I don't feel any different." Peter stood perplexed, turning his hands over to search them for hidden secrets. "I took her power. I should feel different."

"No, Peter," Claire softly said. "You already _had_ my power. You will never _ever_ feel different. This is all you will ever feel."

Peter's hands dropped. "It feels like I'm starving."

"Yes," Sylar said. Claire still stood protected behind him as they both looked past his shoulder. "Get used to it."

Finally, Peter noticed the blood on his hands. He collapsed to his knees. "I just attacked you… I'm so sorry, Claire. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Peter," Claire said. But she didn't step any closer. 

"I don't even know if it worked," Peter said. "All of that… all that I put you through - for nothing."

Sometimes, when she healed, the blood went back inside. Sometimes it didn't. The ring of blood around her head had vanished. The line of blood that had split open down her face still looked as fresh as when Peter had caused it. With his thumb, Sylar wiped the blood off her forehead. 

Underneath it sat an open wound. 

"Claire," he breathed, trying not to panic. "You're not healing."

"Yes, I am." She frowned at him. "I just put my head back on." Bending down, she picked up one of the shards of glass from the shattered window, dragging it through her forearm. 

Blood rushed from the cut. And, just as always, the cut closed back up. But Claire stared in fascination down at her arm. 

"Look," Sylar said, grabbing her other arm and dragging her over to the cell's shabby mirror. 

Finally, she looked up. A bloody wound stretched down her forehead with the tail end barely on her other cheek. Claire poked it. The wound remained. 

"I don't get it," she whispered. "How come I can heal and it won't go away?" 

Sylar frowned at it. "I don't know. I _hate_ not knowing."

"I know that mark," Peter said, coming to join them at the mirror. "That's the same pattern as the scar I have in the future."

Shocked, Claire turned to him. "Future Claire, the assassin, has a matching one?" 

He shook his head. "Only Peter."

"Is Future Peter…" She gestured her hands vaguely. "Evil?"

"I don't know," Peter said. "I don't think so." For some reason, he gave Sylar a funny look. 

Sylar poked at her wound. "Does it hurt?" 

She swatted his hand away. "A little. Not much." Claire leaned closer to the mirror, pushing at the wound. "You think it'll scar?" 

"Yes," Sylar said. "If what Peter said was any indication."

"An immortal with a scar," Claire said, straightening. "I kind of like it."

"It's my fault, Claire." Peter could barely look at her. "I scarred you. It's not supposed to be this way."

Sylar tilted his head. "If the scar truly won't go away and Future Peter has a scar and Future Claire doesn't have one…"

"Then I can't be her!" Claire turned to him, grinning. "We've already changed the future!" 

"Well," Peter couldn't keep himself from adding, "We run into healers occasionally. Maybe they could--"

But Claire shook her head. "My arm. When I cut it, I could feel… not _pain_ , but something."

"You certainly felt pain when my fingers were in your head," Peter said. He looked less-than-thrilled at his part in it. "You were _screaming_ , Claire."

"I wonder if maybe pain is just muted…" Claire turned to Sylar and Peter. "One of you, throw lightning at me."

"No," they both instantly replied. 

She rolled her eyes. "Typical."

"I don't know if you noticed," Sylar said, with a slight hesitation. "But I _kind of_ threw your dad into a cell. Should we…?" 

Claire shook her head. She glanced at Peter. "There's one more thing we have left to try." Abruptly, she laughed. "A third uncle of mine for us to visit."

  
  


Flint smiled as the two strangers sauntered into his cell. Then, he noticed Sylar. 

"You're the one who offed Knox!" Flint said, surging forward. 

"I am," Sylar replied, standing next to Claire. "And I'm…" He paused, considering. "I'm sorry. Though not as much as for the other people I've killed, because let's face it, Knox wasn't a great guy."

Claire elbowed him. 

Sylar shrugged. "But I can still be sorry."

Flint snarled. Fire flared in his hands. "And I can still burn your smug ass to ashes!" 

Peter stepped forward. "We're not here to hurt you!" he said, holding up a placating hand. "I just want to learn how to do what you do."

Flint frowned. "Ain't no one who can do what I do. Even my big sis can't match my flames."

His fire snuffed out, standing back to evaluate Peter. 

"I'm a bit… unstable," Peter continued. "Are you willing to let me try?"

Flint laughed. "Sure thing, little man. Your little commotion down the hall was the most fun I've had in _weeks!"_

"In four days," Sylar corrected him. "Since you robbed that bank and I caught you."

With a snarl, Flint lunged toward him. Peter put a hand on the fire-starter's chest, holding him back. "He's an asshole," Peter said to Flint. "Ignore him."

"Aww, Peter." Sylar put a hand over his heart. "You wound me."

Claire elbowed him again. But, when he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, she was smiling. A smile spread across his own face. 

Peter reached toward Flint's head, one finger outstretched. Claire winced, braced for the inevitable blood. They had to give Peter every chance to pull himself back, even if it injured Flint. Death was another matter. Sylar stood braced for a fight, ready to knock Peter away. Flint wasn't about to die on their watch. 

With a gasp, Peter wrenched his finger back. He clenched his fists. Blue flames sprouted. Peter quenched the flames, still catching his breath. 

"Look at that!" Flint grinned. "You really could do it!"

"The Hunger," Peter said between breaths. He laughed. "I can shut it off. Thank you, Claire. Thank you, Flint."

The person suspiciously left out of that list of 'thank you's' cocked his head. "No, you can't."

Peter's face scrunched with confusion. "I literally just did."

"No," Sylar clarified, stepping closer. "My power doesn't shut off. You…" He trailed off as a realization hit him. "You figured out how my power works," Sylar breathed. 

"Yeah, I just said that. I--"

"No, no, no," Sylar said, with another step forward. "Your empathy and my power. They're different routes to the same source."

"Incompatible," Claire added. "An endless feedback loop."

He gestured to her in agreement. "And you made them line up. You used my power to _figure out how they worked_."

"You're not making any sense," Peter said. "You're--"

Sylar turned to Flint. "Your fire. What do you fuel it with? Rage or--?"

"It's fire, man," Flint chuckled. He lit his hands to demonstrate. "You just 'fwooooom' and it goes!"

"Show me."

"What?"

Sylar's smile didn't look entirely sane. "Burn me alive."

"Sylar!" Claire immediately objected. "Don't be stupid, you can still feel pain!"

"Peter gets it," Sylar said, gesturing at him. True enough, Peter stood to the side, arms crossed and grinning smugly. 

"I do," Peter said. "It's the reverse of what you did for me, Claire, when I opened up your head. You showed me what I already had. Sylar needs to feel what he's missing. It's his only chance to figure out how to use his version of empathy."

"Are you fireproof?" Sylar asked Flint. 

The fire-starter shrugged. "Mostly." 

"Then everyone in this room will be fine. Fire when ready."

Flint laughed. "Shit, man, you're crazy." 

Sylar made no reply. 

"You're serious?" 

Sylar nodded. 

Flint shrugged. "Alright." He turned to Claire and Peter. "When the boss lady comes around, tell her he asked for it."

"Sylar--" Claire said, reaching for him. He turned, one eyebrow raised. She had no idea what she'd wanted to say. Her hand dropped, useless. 

"I need to do this, Claire," he said softly. "I'll be fine."

"Okay," she replied. He'd just helped her do something so dangerous that no one else on the planet would have ever considered it. The least she could do was return the favor. 

Sylar nodded at Flint. In the blue light from his flaming hands, Flint's return grin looked positively maniacal. "I can't believe you're _asking_ me to light you up. This day just keeps getting better and better!"

With a flick of his hands, Flint sent the torrent of blue fire at Sylar. It engulfed him even as it settled down to a traditional orange flame. Sylar screamed. Flint sent more. He kept screaming. 

Claire could feel the heat on her face. Her skin crisped just from this close distance. The stench of burning flesh was unbearable. How much worse was this for Sylar? 

Peter walked to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. She'd been avoiding him ever since he'd attacked her, but this was her Peter. He was back. She could see it in the apologetic set of his face, the sadness behind his eyes. He'd likely never forgive himself for hurting her. 

She wrapped him in a hug and squeezed like it would keep him from ever leaving again. Peter hugged back like she was the life jacket keeping him afloat. 

"I'm so sorry, Claire. So sorry."

She smiled against his chest. "It's alright, Peter. I forgive you." 

Suddenly, Claire knew something else she needed to do. 

Flint's flames stopped. Sylar collapsed forward on blackened hands. He looked barely more than a corpse, desiccated and mummified, shriveled and black all over. 

Letting go of Peter, Claire dropped to her knees next to Sylar. 

He only had blackened pits for features. As she watched, his eyeballs reformed, swelling like balloons till they filled his sockets. Eyelids grew more slowly. The sight was horrifying. 

Still, Claire reached forward, putting a hand atop his hand as it rapidly shifted back to pink. "I'm not the only one you've harmed," she said, "but for what you've done to me and people I care about -- I forgive you."

He grinned a ghastly smile up at her. "Flint!" he wheezed on burned vocal cords. "Go again."

Horrified, Claire backed away. Flint was enjoying himself too much to say no. 

Again, Claire watched as Sylar screamed, burning alive in the flames. Peter watched by her side and she knew if Sylar didn't survive this, his only hope lay in the two of them. They'd make sure he came back from it -- just like he had for her. 

Sylar screamed again. Claire flinched back from the fire. 

"Is he…?" she asked Peter. 

Peter wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "He'll be okay." He flashed his endearing lopsided smile. "Have faith, right?" 

True to his word, Sylar again fell forward on shriveled, blackened hands. "Again," he wheezed at Flint before his mouth had even finished reforming. 

Flint shook his head. "Man, whatever you've got is worse than a death wish." He raised his hands to throw the blue flames. 

Immediately, blue flames shot from Sylar's own hands. They smacked into Flint, pushing him away. 

"Sweet geez!" Flint said, dancing back. "You got it!" 

Slowly, Sylar stood, staring down at his hands. The skin had regrown on them, spreading up to pinken his arms with new flesh. But more importantly, blue flames danced atop those regrown hands. 

"I got it," he grinned, turning his hands over and watching the flames dance. "I didn't kill him and I _got_ it!" 

He took a deep breath, savoring the feeling. Hunger didn't mean devouring -- it meant _learning_. He was like Peter in more ways than he'd ever realized. 

Sylar turned to Peter and Claire, a triumphant grin beaming across his face. While Peter stood smirking at him, Claire turned her back, covering her face with her hand. 

"What's wrong?" Sylar said, horrified. "Claire, I thought you'd be happy for me, I thought--"

Peter's smirk only grew. "You're naked, man. And bald."


	9. Investigation

Sylar ran a hand over his head, cursing the peach fuzz that was its only adornment. Call him a vain man, but he had _really_ liked his hair. 

Sitting across the table from Sylar in the conference hall, Peter abruptly broke into a coughing fit. Doubled over, he broke away from the table, trying to get it under control. Sylar narrowed his eyes. In the middle of a meeting on how to keep the world from ending, it sounded like Peter was trying to stifle… laughter. 

_Were you reading my mind?_ Sylar thought.

Peter wrangled in his coughs long enough to smile… and nod. 

_Great. Just great_ . Noah, Nathan, and Tracy continued their discussion unabated. Sylar raised an eyebrow at Peter. _You know Parkman can use his ability to answer back, right? Not just look on mutely like an idiot with a one-way radio?_

Peter smirked. _ <Yeah, but then I'd be exposing you to his power. It could catch.> _

_Fair enough._ Sylar snorted. _I don't think my fragile view of humanity could handle reading minds._

 _ <Fragile?> _ Peter leaned across the table, instantly worried. He shot a glance toward Claire, sitting between Sylar and her father. _ <I thought Claire said--> _

_Claire has the right of it. I'm not about to hurt anyone,_ Sylar thought at the man. _And unless I'm a_ very _talented liar, I can't fool you in here._ He tapped his temple. _Pardon me for making a tasteless joke._

_ <But you agree it's a bad idea.> _

_Oh, absolutely. The things they say out loud are bad enough. I can't imagine anything more awful than hearing every idiot's stray, useless thoughts._

And suddenly, he could. 

Noah's thoughts hit him first. _I can always reload. No need to settle for_ just _his vital organs. A shot through the shoulder would hurt quite nicely. Lots of bony joints there to regrow._

At the table around Sylar sat Nathan, Tracy, Peter, Noah, and Claire. 

Noah glanced over at Claire, who smiled up at her dad. But her new wound crinkled as she did and Noah's thoughts started up again. _Carve a scar on_ Sylar's _stupid face while I'm at it. I can't believe he--_

With a wince, Sylar pulled away from Noah's thoughts. Claire's soon-to-be scar _was_ his fault, wasn't it? He hadn't been fast enough. Hadn't protected her well enough. 

"Why are we still talking about Pinehearst?" Tracy asked. "They've got nothing to do with any of this."

 _Cueball's awfully quiet,_ Tracy thought. _Figured an ex-serial killer would be in favor of charging down the doors. Can't believe we're just sitting across a table from him._

Sylar ran a hand through his peach fuzz hair again. Cueball? Had she meant…? 

"When I hear about a new Company opening doors, I get suspicious," Noah replied. "God knows this one has its flaws, but Pinehearst--"

Sylar opened his mouth to speak. 

_Yep, here goes Cueball, about to ruin everything,_ Tracy thought. 

Sylar closed his mouth. 

_Good boy, Cueball,_ Tracy continued. _Let the grownups talk._ "Noah, I hear what you're saying, but be reasonable. There are still villains out there, ones that escaped on your watch! You really think Pinehearst is the biggest priority here?" 

"My mother is in a coma!" Nathan yelled. "Until we figure out what put her in that coma, we have no idea what we're facing!" 

_I know_ , Nathan thought bitterly. _I'll_ fly _Mom out of her coma._

Tracy gestured across the table. _Mopey._ "Peter?" _Cueball._ "Sylar? Do the two of you have anything you want to add?" 

Peter shook his head. Try as Sylar might to read Peter, it was as if his new power reflected off a mirror. "I need to go check on Mom," Peter said. "I won't know anything until I do that."

"And Sylar is my partner," Bennet said with a glare toward the man. "Where I go, he goes." _One bullet for each second Claire was trapped in there with those monsters._

Sylar shrugged helplessly at Tracy. He really hoped Noah was joking. 

"Aren't you guys forgetting something?" Claire added. "I can help."

 _Sure_ , Nathan thought. _Claire can help by getting herself captured._

 _Help?_ Tracy stifled her laugh. _I think the Governor has a daughter in high school. While we're at it, I'll ask for her help, too._

Noah's thoughts were filled with rage. _Claire "helps" again over my dead body._

Sylar turned to Claire. As much as he desperately wanted to know Claire's thoughts, his mental powers shut down like a switch had been thrown. Each possible thought from her sounded more terrifying than the next. He was better off not knowing. 

"We're losing time," Peter said, standing from the table. "I'm checking on Mom. Maybe I can do something to help her."

"I'll go with you," Sylar said, standing as well. "Two heads, and all."

"Great!" Claire added. "And I can--" 

"NO." Noah Bennet's glare held no budge. 

Claire sighed at Peter and Sylar. "I'll meet you down there."

With a smirk, Sylar followed Peter out the door. He was sure she would. 

"Come on," Nathan said, grabbing his coat. "I'm not leaving that psycho with my mother."

Tracy followed, rolling her eyes behind Nathan's back. 

Noah and Claire sat alone at the empty table. 

"Dad," Claire finally said. "I know you're worried and all but--"

Noah gripped his daughter's shoulders. " _W_ _orried?_ Claire, Peter tried to _kill_ you. He ripped a scar in your head. You and Sylar _let_ him."

"You shot at Sylar!" Claire yelled. "Everything was under control until you--"

"Under control?" Noah fought back his fury. "Do you even _hear_ yourself, Claire?"

"I _fixed_ Peter," she insisted, leaning emphatically on the table. "He's down there, trying to fix his mom, thanks to me."

"And that scar across your face? You want to explain how everything was so under control that the Unkillable Girl _scarred_?"

"How many scars do you have, Dad? How many times have you gotten injured trying to save people?" She stood, snarling down at him. "I helped Peter and Sylar because my uncles are the only ones who _let_ me help! How does that feel, ranking below an ex-serial killer?"

Noah snorted. 

Claire narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"Your 'uncles.' I was there at the beginning, Claire. I was with Sylar when he still called himself Gabriel Gray." Noah gave a wry smirk. "Odd that his being a Petrelli never made it into his file."

"Right, as if it's in my file," Claire replied. 

Noah shrugged. "It has been since you were born."

She paused. There was _no way_ Angela could be that devious, to lie about being a _mother_? That just wasn't possible… right? "Regardless," Claire finally replied, "The two of them need my help and I'm going to give it." She strode away from the table, toward the door. 

"You're not invulnerable, Claire!" Noah followed her through the door. "Don't you get that--"

Claire rounded on him. "You're right. I'm not. And _neither is anyone else_." With a laugh, she ran a finger over the wound crossing her face. "Everyone keeps complaining about this. But you know what? I _like_ it. It's proof that I was brave, proof that I _did_ something." 

"What do you think you'll be able to do now, Claire?" Noah said, following her from the room. 

"I don't know," she replied, striding down the hallway. "But I won't figure it out up here."

  
  


Peter fell back across the hospital room as if he'd been thrown from his mother's mind. 

"Did you see anything?" Nathan said, gripping Peter's shoulders tight. "When you were in her head, could you see anything?" 

"Not really," Peter said, rubbing the disorientation out of his eyes. "All I saw was a logo. Like a gene, a double helix."

Noah and Claire strode through the door of the hospital room. Claire looked determined, Noah like he wanted to kill someone -- preferably Sylar. A quick peek from Sylar into Noah's thoughts revealed that to be exactly the case. 

"But that's Pinehearst's logo," Tracy replied. "Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, I'm sure," Peter said. 

_That can't be right,_ Tracy thought. _Tests haven't begun, so it would have to be-- Shoot, Nathan warned me his brother could read minds. Just remember running your hands through Nathan's hair, tracing the muscles on his chest with your fingers--_

Simultaneously, both Peter and Sylar winced, ripping their minds away. 

Tracy looked between the two of them as a realization bubbled to the surface. "Sylar," she slowly asked. "Can you read minds?" 

Sylar cleared his throat to buy time. "As of five minutes ago… yes?" 

Immediately, Bennet's thoughts switched into Japanese. 

Peter rolled his eyes. "I was kidding when I said it could catch. How in the world did you get it so quickly?" 

Sylar snorted. "That's rich, coming from the guy who gets powers without even trying."

"Pinehearst did this to my mother?" Nathan tried to wrangle them back on track. After a nod from Peter, he turned to Tracy. "I'm going to go kick down doors. Are you coming?" 

"Of course," she replied, offering him her hand. Taking it, she and Nathan were gone. 

Only Bennet remained with Claire and her two 'uncles.'

"I have to hunt down the remaining people with powers who escaped. With Pinehearst in the mix it's more essential than ever," Noah said, checking the chamber of his gun. "The Haitian already has a lead on one of them." His gaze inevitably turned to Claire, unsure whether to crack down harder on her rebellion or--

"Dad?" Claire whispered. "I'll be fine. You can't spend your whole life worrying about me. You've got to let me grow up sometime."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Noah pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Promise me you won't leave the building?" 

Claire smiled up at him. "I can say that if I do, I'll have at least one of the two most powerful people in the world at my side?" 

Neither Sylar nor Peter could repress their grins. 

Noah glared at Sylar and then at Peter. "If anything happens to her -- if she stubs a _toe_ \-- I will come for both of you. And I will make you _suffer_. Understood?" 

"As always, Noah," Sylar replied. "I hear the shoulder is a good target. Lots of bony joints to regrow."

Bennet's mental Japanese grew loud and angry. 

"We understand," Peter replied more seriously. "We won't let anything happen to Claire."

With a final glare at both of them, Noah left. 

Sylar turned to Peter. "Do you think if you tried again, you could break through to Mom?" 

Peter shook his head. "I'm not Parkman; I've never been very good with mental stuff. Whatever's holding her here in the coma is stronger than I can imagine."

"Do you think two psychics might have a shot?" Sylar asked. 

"You're serious?" Peter laughed. "You learned this power like two minutes ago. There's no way you're better than me at it."

"I didn't say better," Sylar said with frustration. "I said both of us combined _._ Surely two novices must have some usefulness."

Peter shrugged. "Worth a shot."

They turned to Claire, worried. 

Claire shrugged. "Hey, someone has to watch over you guys in the real world, right?"

Peter pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Thanks, Claire."

He grabbed one of Angela's hands as Sylar walked around her bed for the other. Sylar wouldn't meet Claire's gaze. 

"Sylar, did you read my mind?" Claire asked, her eyes narrowed. 

He shook his head. "I know you won't believe me -- _I_ wouldn't believe me -- but I didn't. Honest."

"You read Tracy's mind, but not mine?" He nodded. Claire frowned. "Why?" 

Sylar hesitated, not sure what to say. 

"Can you interrogate him later, Claire?" Peter asked. "We've kind of got to--" 

Claire laughed. "Go save the world. I've got your backs."

With Peter and Sylar each holding one of Angela's hands, they closed their eyes. 

"Uh, Peter?" Sylar asked. "I've never done this before, what are we…?" 

"I don't know!" Peter replied. "I did it for the first time a minute ago! Just… think real hard, or something!" 

"Think real hard. Very scientific." Sylar nodded, his eyes still closed. "Alright."

Claire wondered if she'd be able to tell if it worked. Peter and Sylar both squeezed their eyes shut in concentration. A few moments later, they relaxed. 

"Guys?" Claire asked. "Did it work?" 

Neither of them replied. To all the world, Peter and Sylar looked like they were Angela's two devoted sons, sleeping away in the armchairs by her hospital bed. 

"Guess it worked." 

Claire surveyed the room. If someone actually came in trying to hurt them, what could she do? Yell angrily? For all her protestations to her father, she wondered how helpful she could actually be. 

_A gun._ Agents had guns, right? Claire could use one. She wouldn't even have to worry about accidentally hitting Peter or Sylar, the only other two people on the planet who could shrug off a bullet. As long as Claire didn't hit Angela, as even the worst shot in the world, she could help. 

Claire crept out into the hallway. Primatech was pretty creepy with no one else running around. If her dad were here-- 

But he wasn't. It was up to Claire. 

She thought back to a place that might have supplies. The control room? If it didn't have guns, maybe it would have something else that could help. Claire marched off in its direction.

The door creaked open at her touch. She fumbled on the wall for the switch before finding it. 

The gun rack was empty. Claire opened the drawers, searching for even a pistol but there was nothing. She found a pair of handcuffs but no keys, grabbing them anyway. She could always cut off her hand if she needed to get out of them. 

About to leave, she took a moment to look at the screens covering the far wall. The few prisoners in the upper levels seemed fine, sleeping, reading, etc. The level 5 prisoners… The shattered glass in Sylar's cell still hadn't been repaired and next to it sat Peter's, in a similar state. 

Doyle, Flint, Jesse, and the guy who could make vortexes were all who remained. Doyle was off his sedation drip, pacing the length of his cell. Claire shuddered, turning away from her least favorite of the prisoners. 

No guns here. She strode out the doors of the room, trying to leave her thoughts behind her. How close _had_ she been to being trapped by Doyle forever? Sylar was unkillable, so _eventually_ he would have gotten free. But the thought still rankled. If a serial killer, a _murderer_ hadn't been there, if Claire had been her father's only partner… They might not have made it out. 

Claire slammed open the doors to Angela's office. There had to be a gun of some sort in here. 

But there was a possibility in here that Claire hadn't considered. Her eye immediately snagged on the rows and rows of files lining the walls. _Gabriel Gray._ Claire scanned the shelves, hunting. _There._ She pulled the box down. 

Whatever she expected to find, a normal file was not it. A date of birth, barely a year younger than Peter, place of origin, family who raised him. Adopted Mother - deceased, accidental death. Adopted Father - one Martin Gray, complete with an address. Claire scribbled it onto a scrap of paper, shoving it in her pocket. The only interesting thing in his file -- besides the thick stack of notes on each of his _many_ victims -- was that "Biological Parents" was left blank. 

An alarm sliced through the silence. A whirlwind flew through the hallway, flinging the doors of the office open so hard they slammed into the walls. Immediately, Claire ducked behind the giant desk. 

"Huh," a girl with bright blonde hair said, standing casually in the middle of the room. "This was easier than I thought." With another flash of motion, she was gone. 

Claire waited, listening. All she could hear through the blaring alarm were distant slams. Slams that sounded like… cell doors. Claire raced back to the control room. 

Every screen showed the same image - an empty cell. 

Flint was free. Jesse was free. And Doyle… For all Claire knew, he could be standing right behind her.

She whipped around at the thought. No one there. But if they weren't in their cells, they could be anywhere. 

Claire ran to Angela's room. Her grandmother still lay on the hospital bed, with Peter sitting on one side and Sylar on the other. 

"Guys?" Claire called. 

They slept on. She walked over, shaking Peter's shoulder. No response. She reached across the bed, tapping Sylar's hand. Nothing. 

The alarm still blared. _Why hadn't that woken them up already?_ Were those footsteps she could hear coming down the hall? 

"Okay, it didn't work!" Claire whispered emphatically to her two 'uncles'. "Angela's still in the coma, time to wake up!" 

They slept on. Peter flinched with a little moan. 

"Peter?" Claire shook his shoulder again. "C'mon, Peter, wake up. We're going to need rescuing any minute. Something bad is loose in Primatech."

His head flopped as she shook him. With a sigh, Claire let go. Maybe Sylar could--

Her thoughts broke off, staring down in morbid fascination at her hand. It was covered in blood.

Claire grabbed Peter's shoulder again. Wet. A dark spot spread across his shirt. She ripped it open. A deep cut on his shoulder bled profusely. Even as she watched, it widened. 

"Peter, you can _heal,_ dammit! Sylar," she said, reaching for the man's hand. "Wake up, we've got a problem--"

Sylar's hand was cold. 

Slowly, Claire pulled away. Something was wrong. Something was _badly_ wrong. And when she'd touched Sylar, for a brief instant, she'd seen something, heard an unfamiliar voice. 

Peter twitched again; Sylar lay as still as the grave. 

Making a final decision, Claire stalked across the room. Grabbing a chair, she wedged its back under the door handle. It would have to do for a barricade. She went back to the bed, sitting on the edge so that she could hold Peter's hand in one of hers and Sylar's in the other. 

_Pull me in!_ Claire mentally yelled at the top of her lungs. _Something's wrong in there. You have to pull me in! NOW!_

Both men tightened their grips on her hands. Something _pulled_ at her mind. She could feel her consciousness slipping -- and being torn apart. 

Images flashed across her eyes. Of Primatech, of blackness, of Angela, of an old man--

Claire let out a whimper. _It hurts it hurts it hurts--_

It felt like two giants were playing tug of war while her mind ripped at the seams. It felt like that… because they were. She'd asked them to. Peter and Sylar couldn't _both_ pull her in -- each was only pulling her away from the other. She could only help one of them. 

Claire took a deep, calming breath.

And chose. 


	10. Imagination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been a slight edit to Chapter 4: Primatech. Ctrl+F "As they flew," for the extra sentence. For anyone less familiar with Terminator 2 and my sporadic references, this should help you out. Many thanks to PurpleTypewriter for the beta! :)

Darkness surrounded Claire. Somehow, she walked in the darkness, stretching out into infinity. 

"Hello?" she called. Her voice sounded muffled. "Is anyone there? Sylar? Peter? Anyone?" 

Claire didn't think someone a foot away could have heard her. She ran across the darkness, her footsteps swallowed up by the silence. 

"Sylar! Peter!" she yelled desperately. "Angela! Anyone!"

No one replied. 

Claire bent double to catch her breath, resting her hands on her thighs. _Why am I panting?_ _Isn't this a dream?_ The moment she wondered about it, her panting stopped. 

She looked around, trying to keep from panicking. Nothing. Just a great empty blackness, stretching on forever. She could vaguely make out the blackness she stood on, separate from the blackness above. That faint horizon of black-on-black was the only sight in the entire place. 

"Fantastic." Claire dropped to the ground, wrapping her arms around her legs. "I'm doing so well at helping."

Claire shivered, hugging her legs tighter to herself. The emptiness was  _ cold. _ There was nowhere she could go to avoid it. 

A second shiver triggered a memory. Sylar's hand had been cold -- just like this. There'd been a tug-of-war getting in… and she'd chosen him. 

So, where was he? 

"Sylar!" Claire called again, getting to her feet.  _ I'm not cold, _ she told herself, hoping it would help.  _ It's all in my head.  _ "You can't hide forever, little creep!"

Another shiver racked her.  _ I'm not cold! _ "Sylar?" The blackness ate her shout like a pillow. A different name came to her. "Gabriel?" 

Abruptly, a child appeared. Only his back faced her, huddled into a ball. 

"Gabriel?" Claire whispered. 

The boy turned to look at her. He had brown hair and glasses that threatened to swallow his face. "I can't find my mommy."

With a smile that threatened to spill into tears, Claire sunk to her knees next to him. "Gabriel. I found you."

The boy nodded, unconvinced. "But you're not my mommy."

"I'm not. I've been trying to find her, but I think only you can," Claire said. "Do you know who I am?" 

The boy tilted his head, studying her. Claire's smile grew. She'd seen that same gesture so many times on the grown man. 

"I don't know," the boy replied. "I think I know you, but I don't know how."

"I'm Claire," she said. "And you're Gabriel."

The boy looked at her like she was stupid. "I know my own name."

Claire bit her lip, considering. She had to take the risk. "What about the name 'Sylar'? Does that mean anything to you?" 

He frowned. "It's my dad's favorite watch. Well, it  _ was _ ." He scuffed a shoe along the black ground. "Before he left."

She let out a breath. At least she hadn't ruined everything by mentioning the name, but… It looked like Sylar was in more trouble than she'd imagined.  _ Hold on, Peter. Help is on the way. _

"So if we're trying to find your mom, do you think we should try calling her, or--"

"I don't know!" He sounded so confused and desperate that it nearly broke Claire's heart. "I don't even know what she looks like," the boy whispered. 

"I could describe her for you," Claire said. 

Gabriel glared at her. "Why should I believe you? I still don't know who you are."

The truth came to Claire as she said it. "I'm your friend."

The boy shook his head. "I don't have any friends."

"Well," Claire settled in cross-legged next to him. The cold hadn't been as bad since she'd found him. "When I know you, you've grown up a bit more." She laughed. "You're actually older than me."

He looked skeptically at her. "How do we become friends?" 

She hesitated.  _ Well, you kill a lot of people, including my best friend. Then you cut open my head. Then I go with you to unkill anyone you kill. Then you find out that you're my uncle and you start trying to be good.  _

You just couldn't tell that to a child. But she wasn't going to lie to him. 

Slowly, she took his hand. "When you're older," she said softly. "You hurt people." 

He tried to pull his hand away. She held tight. 

"You hurt  _ me _ ," Claire continued. "But it's okay. I forgave you."

"Why?" the boy asked. Tears glistened in his eyes. "Why would I  _ do _ that?"

A soft sigh escaped her. "You want what they have and you think hurting them is the only way to get it."

"I wouldn't do that," he said, lifting his glasses to wipe at his eyes. "That'd make me… a bad guy. I don't wanna be a bad guy."

Claire smiled. "It's how we became friends. You  _ stopped _ being a bad guy. Now, you help people.  _ We _ help people. You were so proud that you brought someone dangerous in without hurting him." Well, Sylar had broken the guy's arm, but she knew what she meant. 

Gabriel pointed at her. "That scar on your face. Did I do that to you?"

She hadn't realized the scar had traveled with her into the dream. Running a finger down her face revealed a light line, nowhere near as deep a mark as she'd feared. "No," Claire said. "Peter did. You saved me from him."

"So Peter's a bad guy?" the boy asked. 

With a smile, Claire shook her head. "Peter's our friend, too. He was confused -- like you were."

Little Gabriel looked down at his hands, thinking. Slowly, Claire drew her hand away. "I have to find my mom," he said softly. "And my brother, too. I don't know who I am without them."

Claire had a sudden, sinking feeling that she knew why he hadn't been able to find them. "What if…" She'd already told this kid he'd been a bad guy. Telling him this…? She swallowed and tried again. "What if she's not your mom?"

His gaze snapped up to her. "What do you mean?"

"What if your mom is gone and it's very sad--"  _ My 'real' mother pushed me into the monster I became and I accidentally killed her, _ she could remember Sylar saying. "--and the person you're searching for isn't your mother."

He drew away from Claire. "My mom can't be gone. You're lying."

"Am I?" Claire asked.

She sat very still while he examined her. Finally, he shook his head. "No," he whispered. There was such brokenness in his voice that she wrapped him in a hug. He stretched his arms around her, hiccoughing into her chest as he tried to hold back sobs. 

"It's okay," she said, rubbing circles on his back. "It's okay."

"But… what am I supposed to do without a mom?" he asked, his voice thick with tears.

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe the lady you're searching for would  _ like _ to be your mom -- even if she's not."

He pulled away, looking up at her. "Do you think that's true?"

Claire winced. She'd been truthful so far… "No. She's kind of a bad guy. I don't think she'd make a great mom."

Gabriel nodded sadly, letting go of Claire. "So who am I searching for?"

"Angela," Claire replied. "And Peter."

His gaze snapped up at that. "The guy who…?" He drew a line down his face to indicate Claire's scar.

She nodded. "You've been searching for Peter as your brother. Why don't you try searching for him as your friend?"

Gabriel sucked in a deep breath, holding it. "But if I find him, won't I have to… grow up?"

"I think you will."

He twisted his body away, scuffing a shoe along the ground. "What if I don't want to? What if I don't want to remember being a bad guy?"

"Then you won't get to remember having friends. Peter and I both like you for who you are -- and for the hero you're becoming."

Abruptly, a smile broke across little Gabriel's face. 

"Yeah," Claire laughed. "Peter and I are pretty great to have as friends, if I say so myself--"

"Not that." An annoyed look crossed his face before it cleared back into his broad smile. "A hero. You think I'm a hero."

Leaning forward, she gave a slow nod. "I want you to think about that every time you see my scar. Peter would be crazy or I would be dead --  _ or both _ \-- if it hadn't been for you. Okay?"

"Okay," he beamed. 

Standing, Claire stretched out a hand to him. "You ready to find your friend?"

Gabriel took her hand. "Yes. I'm ready to be a hero."

"Okay," Claire said, "So on the count of three, we'll both--"

He gave her a look like she was stupid. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"No," she said. "I've just been guessing. Do you?"

"Duh." He tapped his head. "I got us in here, didn't I? You just do this." 

One moment, everything was black. The next, everything dissolved into white. She covered her eyes against the blinding light. 

When Claire pulled her hand away from her eyes, the halls of Primatech surrounded her. 

"You did it!" she cried, spinning to face the person whose hand she was holding. Something about the hand had changed. "We made it…"

It was not little Gabriel holding her hand, but the 30-year-old. Claire started to pull her hand away -- and then didn't. 

"You okay?" she asked. 

His heavy brow furrowed. "We're here to help Angela?"

"Yes."

"Who is not my mother."

It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. "I don't think she is, no."

He nodded. Slowly, he answered, "Then, yeah. I'm okay."

Claire started down the hallway but he hadn't moved. Her hand, still laced with his, snagged at the dead weight. She turned back to look at him. 

"You didn't lie to me," he said with some hidden emotion. "You told the truth to a child. Why?"

Was he angry? Claire stepped closer. "Enough people have lied to you. I didn't want to be one of them."

He lifted his other hand, tracing a finger lightly down her scar. His touch was lighter than a feather against her skin. Claire shivered. He stopped with his finger on the tip of her nose. A long moment passed while he looked at her and she looked at him. 

His eyes dropped. His hand fell back to his side. "You're wrong about your scar. It's my fault that I didn't stop Peter in time, that I didn't--"

Putting a hand against his face, she turned it back to look at her. "Do you think my dad blames himself for shooting at you?"

"No."

"He should. Do you think I blame you?"

He swallowed thickly. "You should."

With a smile, Claire shook her head. "I didn't even want you to come with me.  _ You  _ insisted.  _ You _ listened to me, protected me, and risked hurting me -- cutting open my  _ head _ \-- without faltering for an instant. Tell me again why I should blame you?"

"I wasn't--" Even to his ears, his objections began to ring hollowly. " _ Fast _ enough, didn't stop him in time--"

With a smile, Claire flicked his nose. He jumped back, shocked. "Bad," she said with a tease. "You bad, bad boy."

Something turned over in his chest. Something warm and  _ happy _ unfurled its wings. Something he hadn't known he'd still possessed. 

"Claire! Sylar!" Peter yelled from down the hallway. "Took you long enough. Come help me!"

The name hit him like a slap to the face. Claire could see it as he steeled his jaw, braced himself to face the world as a monster.

Claire turned to Peter. "Gabriel," she called back. "His name is Gabriel."

"Gabriel, whatever, come here and help me!" Peter replied. 

Gabriel smiled at her. She could see the little boy behind the smile, so happy at being called a hero; the man, so happy at rejecting his monstrous name. With a squeeze of her hand, he started down the hallway. 

"Yeah, Claire, stop holding everyone up!" Gabriel said, a tease in his eyes. 

Claire rolled her eyes.  _ Typical. _ But, smiling against her will, she followed after him, still holding his hand. 

Everything shifted. Angela sat in her office, handcuffed to a chair. 

"It won't work, Peter, she said dispassionately. "You've already tried."

Peter tugged at the cuffs. "I'm not leaving you here!" 

Blood trickled down his arm. Claire ran to him, pushing back his sleeve. "Peter, you're bleeding!" 

"I'm fine," he said, turning away. "If I can just get Mom out of here…" 

"Mom." Gabriel laughed, standing in the doorway. 

Claire hesitated. That smile looked more 'Sylar' than 'Gabriel'. Had she been wrong to tell him the truth? Was his tenuous tie to Angela the only thing holding him on the side of the angels? 

With a raise of an eyebrow, his smile turned even more mocking. "That's what I've been calling you, haven't I?" 

"She's not your mother, Sylar."

Claire spun toward the new voice. An older man in a suit stood in the office, his hands spread wide in a welcoming gesture. 

"Stop it,  _ Dad, _ " Peter glared at the man. "You've done enough already."

Mr. Petrelli raised his hand. A fresh cut slashed across Peter's cheek. Peter winced away. 

"Children should not speak until spoken to, Peter. I thought your mother and I raised you better than that," Mr. Petrelli said. 

Angela frantically twisted her head, turning to speak to Peter and Claire. "Get out while you still can. While you're in this dream, Arthur controls every element. He can make you see anything, feel anything."

"Angela," Mr. Petrelli smiled patronizingly. "What makes you think I'll let them leave? All we need is Nathan to complete the family reunion. I hear he'll be visiting me shortly. Maybe I'll have him join all of you when he gets here."

Angela tugged against the handcuffs -- which didn't budge.

"Family reunion?" Sylar snorted. "If she's not 'Mom,' you're not 'Dad,' either. What does that make me?"

Mr. Petrelli's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Fresh blood. This family needs some shaking up and you're the perfect one to do it. Angela's been holding you back, hasn't she?" 

With a shrug, Sylar stepped closer to the older man. "Certainly. She would have put a leash on me if she could. Why? What do you have planned?" 

"He's a liar," Angela said. "Dangerous, too." Her eyes flicked to her husband. "Even in here. Isn’t that right, Arthur?"

Mr. Petrelli ignored his wife. "I have great plans for you, Sylar. This new world order of people with powers will need a leader."

"Don't listen to him!" Peter yelled. The cut on his cheek bled down his face. 

Sylar's eyebrow climbed higher. "Go on."

Claire couldn't believe what she was seeing. "Gabriel, what are you…" 

He shot a glare at her. "Not now, Claire." Sylar shifted his gaze back to Mr. Petrelli. "I'm still waiting."

_ Not now?!?! _ He was just going to silence her, like a, like--

Mr. Petrelli laughed. "Did you know, Sylar, that I can show you how to use your powers without killing people?" 

Sylar stepped forward, enraptured. "Is that even possible?" 

Claire frowned. Of course it was possible; he'd burned alive to learn Flint's flames right in front of her. 

Mr. Petrelli smiled, clapping Sylar on the shoulder. "Absolutely. When you meet me at Pinehearst, I'll show you. But for now, here's my gift to you: a way out of the lies. Go on, Angela.  _ Tell him the truth. _ " 

Claire could see as Arthur's command took effect, shivering through Angela and binding her even in this dream world. Peter stood, prepared to step between his mother and the rest -- but there was nothing he could do. 

Sylar turned to Angela. "You're not my mother."

She gave a regretful smile -- and shook her head. "No, I'm not."

Something in him broke as that last hope died. "For a moment, I wished you were." Sylar's eyes flicked back to her. "Why did you do it?"

Angela struggled as she formed the words. "I wanted you to work for the company. You had a skill that I needed."

Sylar snorted. "And you saw me as what, a hero?" His eyes flicked momentarily to Claire before returning to glare at Angela.

"No. I saw you as--" She struggled to keep from saying the words. "As a killer, a monster. You were flawed, weak, malleable, someone I could manipulate, because that's what I do. I'm a monster, too. Just like you, just like Arthur."

A muscle in Sylar's jaw spasmed as he looked away. 

"C'mon, Sylar," Peter pleaded. "You knew she was messed up. Deep down, you had to know she was using you--"

Sylar turned to Mr. Petrelli. "Pinehearst, you said?"

The older man nodded. "New Jersey. Meet me there and leave my wife the same way she left me -- rotting inside our own bodies." He paused, looking at Peter and the blood running down his cheek as he crouched next to his mother, bound to the chair. “But what to do with  _ you _ , my boy. Seems like one of my sons is always causing me problems. Any ideas, Sylar?”

Turning to Peter, a wicked smile spread across Sylar’s face. “With your power, Arthur, you can do anything you want in here?”

Mr. Petrelli chuckled. “Just about. This dream reality shapes as I will it.” Lifting only a finger, an invisible force punched Peter in the face. He flew across the office, crashing into the far wall. Peter slid into a heap on the floor.

“Stop it!” Claire stepped in front of Peter. “You’re hurting him in the real world!”

Mr. Petrelli gave her his most patronizing smile. “What makes you think I didn’t know that? There are more ways to kill immortals than you’d know, girl.”

Mr. Petrelli raised his finger again – towards Claire. She flinched backward. Her powers were useless here. How much damage could he inflict—

Sylar stepped forward. “Tracy said you were running tests there at Pinehearst? What on?”

Mr. Petrelli lowered his finger, distracted.  _ Had Sylar done that on purpose? _ Claire wondered. “A formula that gives powers. With it, we can shape the world in our image and rule it. The only thing we’re missing is the catalyst.”

“Is that all?” Sylar laughed. “Then it’s a good thing you didn’t hurt her.”

“What are you talking about?” Claire hissed.

Sylar shrugged without an ounce of remorse. “You’re the catalyst, Claire.”

“Gabriel!” Angela yelled.

Mr. Petrelli paused, taking in the information.

“How could you?” Claire whispered to Sylar. “The first chance you get, you help  _ him _ ? He’s the most obviously evil guy I’ve ever met. And just like that, you betray your only two…”  _ Friends _ . She broke off, looking away. The word hurt too much to say. She'd put her neck out for him, she'd thought he'd changed… but of course he hadn't. Monstrous colors ran true. “How did you even know I was the catalyst?”

Sylar willed her to look at him, to meet his eyes. “I saw it inside your head. I told you that you were special, Claire. And I would know: I have detailed files on human anatomy.”

Something in that phrase made her pause. He didn’t have files, he had horrifying, hands-on knowledge of human anatomy -- especially brains.

Behind Claire, Peter struggled to his feet. She turned, offering him a hand up which he gladly took. Cuts showed all over him, his blood soaking through his clothes. She only hoped he could hold on. Whatever awful craziness Sylar and Arthur were brewing, she knew Peter would be the only one who could stop them.

Abruptly, Mr. Petrelli laughed. “Of course she'd be the catalyst. I knew there had to be a reason Kaito gave that baby to our best agent. Bring her with you to Pinehearst, Sylar.”

“What do we do about him?” Sylar pointed straight at Peter. “The moment I wake up from this dream, Peter will put his fist through my face.”

“You better bet I will.” Peter glared fury at Sylar. "Now that I have your power and mine, Sylar, I'm stronger than you'll  _ ever  _ be."

“See?” Sylar smirked. “I won’t even get a chance to call him a dipshit or say, ‘Hasta la vista, baby.’”

_ What _ . Claire stared at Sylar in bewilderment. Those were quotes from Terminator 2. Had he seen it? From the way Sylar kept looking intently at her, willing her to understand…  _ something _ … she wondered if he had meant it as some sort of secret code. The only problem was: Claire had no idea what the code meant. 

Mr. Petrelli gave his son a patronizing smile. "But you're not stronger than me, Peter. I can maim you right here and no one can leave my dream until I let them. All the powers in the world won't do you any good when you're stuck inside the mind of a five-year-old."

As Arthur advanced, Peter raised his fists, blood dripping off his chin. He always tried to look tough but Claire could see his fists shake. He'd lost  _ way _ too much blood. 

Again, Claire shifted so she stood in front of him. Whatever Sylar's code meant, she had to hope for the best. "Negative. Maiming your son is not a  _ mission priority _ ." 

She stressed the words, hoping Sylar could hear them in the Terminator's Austrian accent. 

From the grin that split his face, she thought he had. 

"For once, Claire's right," Sylar said. "I don't want to maim Peter -- I want him to  _ suffer _ ." He shrugged. "Angela, too, while you're at it."

"What is wrong with you?" Peter spat. "You helped me, you convinced Claire that you'd grown some sort of conscience and now you throw it all away?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Sylar replied. "I'm only interested in killing. In termination." He looked straight at Claire.

Oh.  _ Oh! _

"Alright." Mr. Petrelli cracked his knuckles. "I think I can make them suffer. Let's see…"

Claire had to stifle her inner triumph before Mr. Petrelli caught on. Sylar had been telling her he was a Terminator, but referencing the second movie made him a Terminator sent back to  _ protect  _ John Connor and follow his commands. A  _ good _ Terminator. If she followed that logic through, it meant that Sylar might still be good. And if  _ that _ were the case…

Maybe he hadn't sided with Arthur Petrelli. 

Maybe Sylar had been stalling. 

The question was -- why?

The dream shifted. 

Claire found herself back on the busy streets of New York City. The hustle and bustle surrounded her as people shoved her this way and that as they passed.  _ New York? _ She couldn't help but wonder.  _ Why New York? _

Her only warning that something was about to go wrong was catching Peter's worried face through the crowd. His blood still streaked down it.

"Claire?" Peter called. "If Dad and Sylar are trying to make  _ me  _ suffer, why are you--"

Two gunshots exploded. 

Angela smiled over the barrel of the smoking pistol. 

Claire stumbled backward, feeling like she'd been hit by a truck. A second later, the pain kicked in. Heat seared through her chest and stomach. A branding iron tore her insides apart. She crumpled to the concrete sidewalk.

"CLAIRE!" Peter screamed. 

Angela disappeared into the crowd, slipping the gun inside her coat. 

"It hurts," Claire wheezed through the pain. "Why does it…" Putting her hand to her chest, her fingers came away covered in blood.  _ Oh. That was why. _ "I've been shot." Speaking was painful and she coughed from the effort. With her cough came more blood. 

Peter shoved through the crowd, never getting any closer to her. "Hang on, Claire! I can help, just hang on!"

Across the street, she spotted Mr. Petrelli and, at his side -- Sylar, looking pale. 

"She's the catalyst," Sylar hissed at Petrelli. "What are you doing, risking everything--"

"Relax, boy," Petrelli said with an easy smile. "You wanted them to suffer." He gestured his hand toward the other side of the street. "They're suffering."

"I wanted  _ Peter _ and  _ Angela _ to suffer. Claire--"

"Will be perfectly fine," Petrelli completed for him. He raised an eyebrow with his curiosity. "You're not…  _ worried _ , are you?"

"Of course not," Sylar quickly replied. "I just didn't take you for an idiot who creates unnecessary risks."

"Oh, it's necessary." Petrelli smiled as he looked to the other side of the street where Peter still struggled, caught in the crowd. "My sons have always been weak. Peter, especially. Hopefully, I can teach him one last lesson before he dies."

Sylar's jaw clenched. He met Claire's gaze through the crowds, willing her to understand.

Claire wasn't sure she did. The pain made it difficult to concentrate on much of anything. At least she'd heard their conversation. 

Finally, Peter broke through, rushing to Claire's side. "It's okay, Claire," he said, brushing her hair from her face. "I'm here. I have my med kit, I can…" He opened the black bag. Sticking his hand inside, Peter pulled out the kit's only object: a toy stethoscope. 

Angrily, Peter threw it aside. He braced his hands on Claire's chest, over the two wounds. "I'll keep pressure on it, then we can…" Blood welled up around his hands, covering his fingers. 

"Peter, it  _ hurts," _ Claire whimpered. 

"I know, I'm sorry, but this will help keep you alive until--"

Mr. Petrelli's voice boomed from across the street. "My son, the  _ nurse _ ." He said the word with disgust. "Can't even save one little girl."

"You're killing her, Dad!" Peter yelled back. "Stop this, I'll do whatever you want, just  _ stop _ \--" 

"Peter," Claire whispered so that Arthur couldn't hear. "Sylar's buying us time."

Peter's face twisted in confusion. He didn't dare risk asking out loud where his dad would hear, but every inch of his face screamed,  _ What for?  _

Immediately, it clicked. She winced around a fresh burst of pain. "You're both empaths." Claire sucked in a breath through her teeth. Talking  _ hurt _ . "Your powers don't work here. Get your dad's power. Use  _ his _ ."

Peter bent down, pressing a kiss to Claire's forehead. He closed his eyes, steeling himself. "Hang in there for me."

Her brave smile wavered at the edges. "I'll try."

"Sylar?" Peter called to the two men across the street. "You ready for a fight?" 

Sylar's gaze remained on Claire -- and the amount of blood she was losing. He understood what Peter meant: was Sylar ready to fight  _ Arthur,  _ did he have Arthur's powers? "No. But I'll take you in a fight any day."

Sylar still hadn't picked up Arthur's power. Not yet. 

"Good enough." Peter rolled out his neck. 

"Peter," Arthur said mockingly. "Claire's dying. It's all your fault, Peter, you couldn't save her and she--"

"No," Peter replied with iron in his voice. "She's not."

He flicked his fingers. With Arthur's powers, the fabric of the dream's reality shifted. The bullets flew from Claire's chest. Her blood, still pooling, started to retreat back inside--

Arthur stretched out a hand. Warping the dream, he ripped Claire's chest open. She screamed. Her ribs cracked as they split apart--

With Claire as the battlefield, Peter could never beat his father. Every move and countermove cost her too much pain. "If you want to fight, fight  _ me!"  _ Peter yelled. Reality warped around his clenched fists. Suddenly, he flew through the air toward his father. 

For a moment, Arthur looked surprised. Determination replaced it. Reality warped around Arthur right as Peter charged into him. 

Claire couldn't follow the superpowered duel. Her eyes kept drifting shut. The one time she'd glanced down at her exposed chest, the sight of her broken rib cage nearly blacked her out on the spot.  _ C'mon, Claire _ , she gave herself a pep talk.  _ You've been on an autopsy table, you can handle a little bit of blood! _

She'd had her powers, before. Now, bleeding out in a mangled pile on the streets of Fake York, she'd never felt so helpless. Pain surged through every broken rib, through every gushing vein. Unlike every other time, the pain wasn't getting any better. 

Crouching beside her, Sylar pressed cool fingers to the side of her neck. "Your pulse is steady enough, all things considered. I've read a few medical books. Now we just need to get pressure on the wound…" He looked down at her chest, every inch part of the 'wound.'

"Sy--" Claire swallowed the word down. "Gabriel." Immediately, his gaze snapped to her face. "I don't want to die," she whispered.

Peter's battle with his father raged. Behind Claire, the streets of New York became a volcano, a geyser, an airplane… on and on, shifting every few seconds and never settling. 

Gabriel grabbed her hand. "You're not going to die. Hang in there, Peter will take him down." He swallowed. "I thought I could use my empathy to get Arthur's power if I talked to him long enough, empathized with him like I did with Flint. Instead…" Gabriel broke off, pressing a hand against Claire's still-gaping wound. "I'm so sorry, Claire."

She winced against the pain. So  _ this _ was what dying felt like. "Peter won't beat him in time to save me. You know it."

He didn't even have to look at the reality-warping battle splitting the streets behind them to know the truth of her words. 

"I  _ tried, _ Claire!" Gabriel pled. "There's nothing I can do! I tried to get Arthur's power and I failed. Without his power, I'm useless in here! This is all my fault and I--"

A painful laugh burst from Claire. "Stop wasting your time trying to empathize with psychopaths. Peter has Arthur's power. Empathize with  _ Peter _ ."

Her short speech had exhausted her. Claire could feel her consciousness slipping. _What did it mean_ _if you passed out while already asleep?_ Something told her she didn't want to find out. 

Gabriel's fingers squeezed around hers. "Hang on, Claire! Don't sleep, don't--!"

Her eyes closed. Gabriel looked at Peter, fighting with every breath to stop his father, to save Claire. Gabriel didn't even have to try to empathize with him -- ever since he'd seen Peter covered in Claire's blood, whenever he looked at Peter, he saw himself. 

Suddenly, Claire was wide awake. Standing over her, Gabriel's hand flexed as he concentrated, shifting reality. She looked down at her chest. Beneath his outstretched hand, her ribs snapped together. Her organs squeezed into place. Her skin knitted back up, good as new. 

Gabriel relaxed. Shifting his hand, he offered it to help her up. "Got any more orders for me, John Connor?"

"Yeah." Just like that, her body was fully healed. Claire grinned as she took his hand, pulling to her feet. "Go kick Arthur's ass."

Gabriel grinned back. "Affirmative."

He strode toward the reality-shifting mess, power in every step. Claire could barely make out Peter through the twisting haze, punching his father as Arthur strangled him--

Gabriel shoved his hand into the haze. Immediately, the air cleared. Arthur's forehead lay between Sylar's fingers, his eyes open in fear. 

Gabriel leaned closer. " _ Go to sleep _ ," he commanded. " _ And don't wake up. _ "

Arthur shimmered out of existence. 

The dream shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter until the end! I'm excited, but also sad to see it go. If you have any thoughts, I'd love to hear them! <3  
> 


	11. Immortals

Claire gasped awake. She paused, taking a moment to study her breaths as they went in and out. Her unblemished chest rose and fell. Closing her eyes, she reveled in the feeling. Her power was back. The familiar walls of Primatech's hospital room surrounded her, the dream was gone, but Claire only cared about her power, about knowing she was alive and unkillable. She  _ never _ wanted to feel that helpless ever again.

Lying on the bed next to Claire, Angela opened her eyes. On either side of her bed, both Peter and Gabriel sighed with relief. 

"You scared us, Mom," Peter said, his fingers laced with his mother's. 

Angela raised an eyebrow, smiling at Claire. "I was more worried about this little one. But I think she saved all of us."

Self-conscious at the praise, Claire hid her blush by looking down at her hands. One of them was still holding Gabriel's. 

"Speaking of that…" Peter stood, striding to Gabriel's side of the bed. 

Gabriel jumped to his feet, dropping Claire's hand. He held up his hands defensively. "I didn't go to Arthur, it wasn't like that, Peter! I was just stalling, ask Claire, I never actually--"

Peter moved to punch him. As Gabriel flinched away, Peter grabbed him into a hug. 

Gabriel stood stunned, not sure what to do. Slowly, he patted Peter on the shoulder. Watching the two of them, Claire grinned. 

Peter let go. "Thank you," he said seriously. "For saving Claire."

Gabriel stood stiff as a board, still without any idea how to respond.

"Hey!" Claire said with mock indignance. "I'd like to think  _ I  _ saved Claire, too."

With a grin, Peter ruffled her hair. "Of course you did. Got both of us sorry lumps off our asses. But I didn't think you needed  _ thanks _ for that."

"Pssh." Claire waved his comments away. "All in a day's work."

The door burst open. The chair Claire had wedged under the handle clanged as it bounced off the opposite wall. 

Doyle strode into the room, his eyes locked on Claire. 

"C'mon, Doyle," the blonde speedster said from behind him. "Don't waste time, we've got to go!"

"I could feel Claire up here," Doyle said. "I needed to--"

One moment, he was standing, talking to Claire. The next, he was on the ceiling. 

Gabriel's raised finger held him there. "You don't speak to Claire. Ever again. Capiche?"

Taking his cue from Gabriel, Peter turned to the speedster. Blue flames coiled around his clenched fists. He raised them -- but she was already gone. 

Letting the flames die, Peter looked up at the ceiling. "So he's, uh, one of the bad ones?"

"The worst," Claire replied. A laugh bubbled up in her throat. "I forgot. That was why I came into Angela's dream after you guys." She broke off, laughing again. "The level 5's got out and I was worried they'd… you know." She gestured up at Doyle before breaking into laughter again.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow at her. "Glad to amuse you."

"Not that!" She giggled before wrangling it back under control. "I'd been so scared of the level 5's, Doyle especially, but he was the least scary thing this whole time. You just…" Claire flicked her finger in imitation. 

"Oh." A twitch of a smile quirked Gabriel's lips. "You're welcome?"

She giggled again. 

"Here, bring him down for a sec," Peter said. "It's giving me the creeps, having him up there just staring at us."

Gabriel let go of Doyle. The Puppetmaster fell to the floor. "Oops," Gabriel said sarcastically. 

Rolling his eyes, Peter put a hand on Doyle's shoulder. They disappeared. A moment later, Peter popped back, alone. "Now he's back in his cell where he belongs."

Claire bumped her hip into Gabriel's. "Remember when my dad said Doyle hadn't beaten you? That if you'd actually fought Doyle, instead of trying to eat his brain, you'd have-- oh, what did Dad say?"

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, ignoring her comment about eating brains. "Put Doyle's insides on the outside before he'd ever had a chance to lay a finger on you?"

"Yeah." Claire smiled. "That. You know -- exactly what you did ten seconds ago. Minus the gross parts."

Surveying the ceiling panel where he'd pinned Doyle, Gabriel was forced to consider her point. The Hunger hadn't hit once and he'd been  _ better off _ for it. His Hunger had driven him to become the best predator -- while keeping him from ever achieving it. What a sad, unfulfilled life he would have led. 

"Huh," Gabriel said. 

"I'm happy for all of you, truly," Angela said, getting back to her feet. In the commotion with Doyle, they'd all forgotten about her. "But it's only a matter of time before Arthur figures out how to wake up and then we'll be right back where we started."

"I'll handle him, Mom," Peter said. "Even if he wakes up, I have all his abilities." 

Claire beamed as she turned to Gabriel. "I was worried you'd killed him."

He shook his head. "Just put him in a coma. The same thing he did to Angela."

As Claire's smile grew, Angela winced. Just earlier today, he wouldn't have said 'Angela' -- he would have called her 'Mom.' She cleared her throat. "Gabriel, I hope you understand, when I said you were my son, I--"

"Mom." Peter looked deadly serious. "Don't. You had your chance to explain, back when you couldn't lie. You don't get to lie to him  _ again _ , right after he's just saved you."

"Peter, I just--"

" _ No. _ "

Gabriel felt something catch in his throat. Peter was… defending him? Against his own  _ mother _ ? He didn't deserve Peter. 

"Angela," Gabriel said as something else struck him. "You weren't awake when Claire got her scar, but you're the only one that hasn't been surprised by it. Did you see it in your dreams?"

"Don't lie," Peter hissed to his mother. 

Self-consciously, Claire ran a hand over the scar in question. It was less visible than everyone made it seem by bringing it up constantly. Gabriel hoped he hadn't given Claire unnecessary worry over it. 

Angela's eyes flicked to Claire. "I dream constantly, you know." Her gaze fell on Peter and she looked away. "But no, I didn't see it in a dream. I saw the scar on your face, Peter, when you came here from the future. It was a broken version of you that I hoped would never come to pass." She tried to smile, raising a hand towards Peter's face. Peter stepped away. Her smile fell. 

"If I got a matching scar from Peter opening my head, then you know exactly how Future Peter got  _ his _ scar," Claire said. "You know  _ exactly  _ why he was a 'broken version.'"

Angela turned, unable to look at her granddaughter. "I suppose I do, now."

"Claire?" Peter asked. "What are you saying?" 

"In that future you visited, Peter," Claire continued. "How was Gabriel? Was he full-blown Sylar? Or…?" 

Peter snorted. "He hugged me. Apologized for not making enough waffles for his son to share with me, Uncle Pete." He shook his head ruefully. "Weirdest part of the trip by far."

Gabriel felt like he'd been punched in the gut. There was a version of him that  _ wasn't  _ a serial killer? Was a father, a  _ good  _ father, by the sound of it? And Peter hadn't  _ bothered telling him?!  _ "What are you saying, Claire?" 

"Angela fed her son to you, to Sylar," Claire spat. "That's how Future Peter got his scar -- from you opening up his head. She told me she'd considered it and apparently in that future, she did it." 

Peter stared at his mother, wide-eyed. "Mom…? You wouldn't…?" 

But everyone knew the answer. She would. In one future, she already had. 

Without another word, Angela left the room. 

A muscle in Peter's jaw spasmed as he fought to rein his anger in. "I'm sorry," he said to Gabriel. "I'm sorry she's so awful, so--" He cut off, shaking his head. 

To everyone's surprise, Gabriel laughed. "Honestly? It's sort of nice, knowing I'm not the only one in the world with terrible parents."

Peter scrubbed a hand through his hair. A smile quirked a corner of his mouth. "I guess my dad wasn't much of a winner, either."

Claire snorted. "You can say that again."

With a sigh, Peter looked away. "I need to get to Pinehearst sooner or later." He glanced up at Gabriel. "You coming?" 

Slowly, Gabriel shook his head. "I don't think you need my help. And frankly, I don't want to fight him again. Or anyone, really."

Claire studied him. His answer pleased her but she wasn't quite sure what to do with it. "If you don't want to fight, what  _ do  _ you want? You never answered me."

He gave her a worn smile. "Would you kill me if I said I still don't know? After Angela, I just…" He shook his head. 

"Arthur might've told someone about the catalyst, even from his new coma," Peter said, pointing to Claire. "Even if I stop him from making this formula, it won't be long before someone else finds out and tries again."

Claire threw her hands in the air. "Great. Just great. And then my dad will go all psycho again and make us move again and-- Ugh! I hate this! Why do I get all the stupid useless powers?!" 

Peter smiled. "You said you didn't want to fight anyone, Gabe. But what would you think about protecting a 'catalyst'?" 

Claire paused, looking at Gabriel. He looked back, a smile growing on his face. "I think I could manage that. I think I might even  _ like  _ that."

She had to fight the blush rising in her cheeks. "I don't need babysitting, you know."

Gabriel shrugged, still smiling. "Then, I won't babysit."

Her blush grew. 

Peter laughed, striding past them. "Come on, you two. Let's make sure there aren't any more surprises hiding here before I head out."

  
  


Minutes later, Peter ran a hand through his hair as they walked. "So, uh, Claire. What exactly are we telling your dad about you nearly dying for good…?"

Claire stopped walking. "Absolutely nothing. Got that?"

On her other side, Gabriel nodded. "I like living. So, yep."

Laughing, Peter stuck his hand in a pocket. "Come on, it can't be that bad--" 

Both Gabriel and Claire glared at him. 

"Alright." Peter laughed again. "We had a nice, lovely time in my mom's head and never needed Claire's help at all."

"And then we woke up  _ just  _ in time to protect Claire from all the baddies," Gabriel continued. 

"Nope," Claire said. "Still too much truth for my dad. We never saw that speedster even enter or leave the building, she was so fast."

"Claire," Gabriel frowned. "Doyle is still sitting in a cell in level five. How are you planning to explain that to Noah?"

Claire shrugged. "How should I know why the speedster left him behind?" 

For a moment, both men stared at her. 

Peter broke the silence with a whistle. "Sometimes you're a bit terrifying, Claire." He snapped his fingers in a realization. "The cameras! In the control room! They'll show everything."

Claire never blinked. "I already scrubbed them. Electrical damage -- happens all the time."

Gabriel elbowed Peter. "You think she's terrifying  _ sometimes _ ?" __

"At least you didn't have to watch her kill the future version of yourself. Which reminds me," Peter said, pointing at Gabriel's wrist. "Can I see that?" He held out his hand expectantly. 

"My watch?" Gabriel replied, looking like Peter had asked to borrow a piece of his soul. "What for?"

"Because it's broken," Peter said, still holding out his hand. No other explanation followed.

"You don't have to let Peter see it just because he asked," Claire said to Gabriel, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Is it some kind of symbol to you?" 

"It is," Gabriel replied, at the same time Peter answered, "Of course it isn't."

Both men stared at each other in confusion. 

Gabriel cracked first. "It's my best watch, everything of my father's that mattered to me, and I broke it killing Chandra Suresh. No Hunger -- just murder. It took me days to even notice the watch was broken. I wear it as a reminder that Sylar -- that  _ I  _ \-- ascended past the need for mundane things like watches and that I fractured my soul doing it. There's no going back."

Even as he said it, Gabriel couldn't hold either Claire or Peter's gaze. He'd been fooling himself, hadn't he? He didn't deserve the bright, happy part of the world that people like them inhabited. 

Silence stretched. 

"That's stupid," Peter replied. 

Gabriel's eyes narrowed. " _ Excuse _ me?"

Peter shrugged, not about to back down. "Exactly what I said. When you handed me your watch five years in the future, you did it without a thought, just so I could learn your power. You insisted I call you Gabriel. You didn't want your little kid seeing you using your powers, even just  _ painting _ , and only fought to protect his life. There was nothing of Sylar in you to remind yourself of. Even with all that, your watch was  _ still  _ broken. 

Peter gestured his hands wide. "If the watch is some sort of symbol to you, tell me what other way Future You could have  _ possibly  _ set your old Sylar life aside." 

Gabriel blinked. He'd never considered any of his crimes as something he could  _ set aside _ . 

Letting out a sigh, pity filled Peter's eyes as he watched him. "Claire already forgave you, hell, for what it's worth,  _ I  _ forgive you. You risked yourself and saved all of us. You're not Sylar anymore. How long will you need to keep proving it to yourself before you believe it? A year? Five years? A century? What in the world are you waiting for?" 

"I'm not…" Gabriel frowned, unsure what he was trying to say. Before, he'd feared relapsing and certainly hadn't walked a perfect path. But something felt different, now. Felt  _ right _ , deep at core, like it hadn't at any point when he'd thought Angela was his mother. "I can't just let it all go, I have to…" He had no idea. 

"Gabriel gave you his watch in the future?" Claire asked Peter. He nodded. "Then maybe whatever the watch means to him isn't something he can solve himself. Even five years from now, it's something he needed someone else to do for him."

Without another word, Gabriel slowly unclasped his watch, handing it toward Peter. At the last second, he stopped. "You'd better not, just,  _ smash  _ it or something."

With a grin, Peter snatched it from him. "Don't worry. In the future, you taught me how to do this yourself."

In Peter's hands, a miracle was blossoming. Using his telekinesis, Peter pried off the back of the watch. Pieces floated, bent and broken. Slowly, he melted them, bending the gears back into shape. The metal wavered, stretched -- and reformed. 

Holding a heated finger against the cracked face of the watch, even  _ it  _ started to heal. With the slight heat, the glass melted, smoothing -- and the cracks disappeared. 

Wearing a proud grin, Peter handed the watch back to its owner. 

Gabriel took the watch with trembling hands. He couldn't strap it back to his wrist. He could only let it sit in his palm, watching it tick steadily away. Slowly, he held it up to his ear. After a few seconds of silence, he let out a breath. 

"It's perfect," he said. 

Peter nodded. "Yeah. Now that I have your power, I can tell. It's a beautiful piece. It'd be a shame if it ever broke again."

"It  _ won't, _ " Gabriel said. When he looked up, there was fervency in his eyes. "Never again."

Claire shrugged. "Sure, but if your watch and I were both falling into vats of lava and you could only save one…" 

He smiled at her. "How about this:  _ I  _ won't ever break it again."

Claire smiled back. "Better."

Finally, Gabriel strapped the watch back on his wrist. He could feel its perfect ticking against his skin like a second heartbeat. 

Peter clapped him on the shoulder. "Take care of the catalyst, brother. I've gotta go take care of my Dad."

_ Brother.  _ Perhaps Peter had meant the word casually, but it echoed through Gabriel's chest. He thought he'd severed his last chance of family with Angela… but perhaps not all families had to be defined by blood. Perhaps Gabriel could build one -- one he was proud of. 

"Peter!" Claire called, right as he took to the air. 

Slowly, Peter floated back down to the ground. "Yes?" 

"If you're going to take care of your dad, you might have to hurt him. Or…"

"Kill him." Peter's jaw clenched. "I know. It's why I've been avoiding it."

"You shouldn't have to kill him," Claire said. 

"Don't you think I know that?" Peter looked away. "But what choice do I have?" 

Claire put a hand on his arm. "Take my dad with you. If it comes to the worst, at least you won't have to be the one who pulls the trigger."

Peter put his hand over hers as his anger drained away into a tired smile. "I'll do that. Thank you, Claire."

"You bet," she said. 

"After you're finished at Pinehearst," Gabriel added. "Come meet up with us. Tell me and the catalyst all the gory-- er, uh… all the  _ interesting _ details."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Will do."

With that, he flew through the window and vanished. 

"You think he'll be okay?" Claire asked. "Even against Mr. Petrelli, the Dream Lord, or whatever his power is?"

"I know it." Gabriel looked over at her. "If I'd thought he was in danger, I would have--" 

"I know, I know," Claire waved him away. "You're all noble and stuff now. Still. A girl can worry about her uncle, can't she?" 

A grin tugged at the corners of Gabriel's lips. "Noble?" 

"Oh shut up." Claire punched him in the arm. "Now I'll never hear the end of this."

Gabriel laughed, rubbing his arm. "Never. But speaking of 'Dream Lording'--" 

She glared at him. "Now you're making fun of me."

He pinched his fingers together. "A little. But I had an idea. I think I could teach you how to use Arthur's Dream Lording."

Claire spun to face him. "You can't be serious."

"Well, I don't know if it would work, but it's worth a shot, right? His power isn't Dream Lording, per say, he just learned how to apply the willpower from his other abilities in order to shape dreams. But I think you have a strong enough willpower to manage some control, even in someone else's dream. You'd never have to feel that powerless ever again."

Claire blinked at him. "You  _ are _ serious."

He nodded. "It'd be difficult to learn, probably take awhile, even a couple years. But you  _ do _ have forever, so--"

She launched herself at him in a hug. 

Gabriel laughed, happy to hug her back. "I don't think I've been hugged so many times in a day before in my life."

She made a funny sound in the back of her throat. He wondered, without the slightest clue what it meant. Was she mocking him? Or contentedly hugging him? Or…? 

The temptation was too much. Flicking on his power, Gabriel listened to her thoughts. 

_ If only he had his hair! Then maybe I could run my hands through it and pull him to me and-- _

Abruptly, he backpedaled out of her head. A second more and he'd stumble into something she'd  _ never _ forgive him for. 

Claire let go, breaking away from the hug. She stared up at his bald head. 

Self-consciously, Gabriel ran a hand over his scalp. "It'll grow back."

Claire grinned. "I know." She sauntered up the hallway with a skip in her step. 

Gabriel swallowed. He was so screwed. Maybe, with all his powers, he could find a way to speed up hair growth… 

Claire looked back at him over her shoulder. "Are you coming?" 

He jogged to catch up. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Though, you still haven't told me where we're going. Home? Costa Verde?"

"School already ended for the year; not much of a point in going home." Claire pulled a piece of paper from her pocket, rolling it between her fingers. "I looked in your file earlier, to check if Angela had been lying to you. I didn't find much. But, I figured, if you wanted to, we could go visit your adopted dad."

She offered him the paper. Gabriel took it gingerly, as if it could disintegrate at a touch. Martin Gray, complete with a New Jersey address. "You're serious? You'd…?" 

"Of course," she easily replied. "Isn't that what friends are for? Besides," Claire shrugged, grinning up at him. "I've learned to like road trips."

Stunned, Gabriel ran a finger across her face, tucking her hair behind an ear. How in the world had he managed to befriend such a wonderful creature? 

Blushing, Claire looked away. 

Gabriel dropped his hand. "Peter," he said, clearing his throat. "We have to let him know where we're going. I don't think my mental range is far enough to get to Pinehearst, so we'll have to try when we're closer. Unless one of us can think of some way to boost it--" 

Claire pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. "I'll call Peter when we stop for the night. Then he can fly over and join us."

"Phones." Gabriel snorted. "What'll they think of next?" 

  
  


Gabriel dropped into the front seat of the rented convertible, glad his credit card had come through. If anything would have tempted him to relapse, it would have been trying to barter for a car with gold. 

Claire kicked her feet up on the dashboard, her toes wiggling in the bright, midday sun. "It's a long way from Texas to New Jersey. You might get sick of me."

"You might leave me by the side of the road," he replied. 

"You might trade me for an extra burrito at a gas station."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "Gas station burritos? Claire, that's disgusting."

She laughed, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. 

"We're immortals," he added. "I think we'll manage."

"Even Peter is." Claire leaned back, smiling beneath her sunglasses. "The Immortals. It feels like a band name."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "Thought I was just a thief."

"You are," she said evenly. "And Peter's a copycat." Claire tilted her sunglasses up, looking teasingly from underneath. "There can only be  _ one  _ original."

With a grin, Gabriel shifted the car into gear. "The Immortals. I like it."

The convertible peeled off down the Odessa highway. Above it, on its thousand-mile journey, the sun looked steadily on -- as the moon began its slow slide over it, into an eclipse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for sticking with this little story and reading till the end. It's been an absolute blast. I'd love to hear any final thoughts you might have. Thanks again :)


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